


Flowers of Middle Summer

by Jellyfax



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not much plot, Pining, Romance, Some Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-03 08:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15815118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellyfax/pseuds/Jellyfax
Summary: Counsellor Erestor had loved Glorfindel unrequited for millennia, and had resigned himself to an eternity of heartache before fading into the West. Until unfortunate circumstances bring a young Lord of Rohan to the gates of Imladris, and Erestor discovers what it feels like to be loved. But all is not as it seems, and the return of a rival sparks jealousy and longing that could either end in disaster, or a resolution centuries in the making.For Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018, and the wonderful Ulan!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).



> This has been a wild ride, writing this fic. What started as a 5-7k fic really got away from me, and now we have this monstrosity!
> 
> First of all I'd like to thank Ulan for her beautiful artwork, the thing that inspired me from the moment I saw it. I hope that this does justice to not only her artwork, but also our enigmatic Counsellor and his dearest Glorfindel (and our secret trash pairing with the glorious Éomer, who I probably showered a little too much affection on in this fic...)
> 
> Thank you so much for trusting me with this, and I hope everyone who reads this had a wonderful summer, and a thoroughly enjoyable TRSB18!

_“...Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;_

_The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun_

_And with him rises weeping: these are flowers_

_Of middle summer...”_

 

* * *

_Counsellor Erestor by Ulan_

 

Starlight was filtering in silver streams through the small half-moon windows of the Counsellor's chambers, cool and clean against the soft warmth of the flickering candles melted down to almost nothing, precariously placed amongst the tomes and scrolls piled in towers on the desk in the centre of the room. Also sat amongst the veritable mountains of parchment was an elf, his long hair spilling over his shoulders and onto the letters in front of him like ink in the quiet darkness. It was not unusual for Counsellor Erestor to be working long into the night, but rather what was unusual was that he was alone. For the past four centuries or so, Lord Glorfindel had become a near constant companion of his, often sat by the window poring over maps or letters from patrols in the North. They would work into the night together, and then break their fast together shortly after sunrise, together in companionable silence, or quiet discussion of anything that had caught their attention the night before. When the world was quiet and their services required less frequently, they could often be seen walking through Imladris in each other's company. In fact, these days it was a rare thing indeed to see one without the other.  
  
It was, however, somewhat of a relief on this particular night for Erestor to find himself alone with his work and his thoughts. Glorfindel had been dispatched with a small party to the Greenwood, and for the first time in months Erestor could breathe. It was not that he didn't greatly value Glorfindel's company, quite the contrary in fact. Much to Erestor's dismay, the torch he carried for Glorfindel had been burning brightly these past two thousand years.  
  
Erestor had not been a particularly green elf when he had first laid eyes on Glorfindel. He had known beauty before, in the form of Celebrían, the silver lady of Lorien, and eventually also in the form of her daughter, so like Tinúviel that she had stolen many a heart before she had even reached her fifth century, but never before had he seen beauty quite like that of Glorfindel. Of course, he had heard the tales, he knew the history of his people, and the great sacrifice the Golden Flower of Gondolin had made, and how the Valar themselves had deemed him worthy of being their emissary and given him a second life. What he had not known, and certainly never expected, was his warmth. The beauty of the elves was well known to be a mirror of the stars and moon, but Glorfindel, who had walked in the light of the Two Trees long before Laurelin's last fiery fruit ascended in the Eastern skies, had a smile like the sun, and hair that gleamed golden-bright like shafts of morning light through the trees in summer. Everything about him was warm and golden as the day.  
  
At first Erestor was sure that the feeling beating against his chest was jealousy. For Glorfindel was everything that he wasn't, with his warmth, his easy manner, and his good temperament. He brought light and life and laughter everywhere he went, even so far as to put bells on the headstall of his poor steed Asfaloth. There was a time when the bright jingle of those bells that hearkened his arrival would fill Erestor with such unbridled fury he had to take off at their calls just to calm himself enough to hold his quill without breaking it between trembling fingertips. It was not that Erestor held himself in particularly low regard, he was in the favour of Lord Elrond, his wit was quick and his tongue sharp, and people generally considered him to be a worthy and competent Counsellor, but the way in which everyone regarded Glorfindel - with such unrestrained awe and respect - was stifling, and made it hard to breathe. He actively avoided Glorfindel in those days, not out of spite, per say, but out of a desperate need to be as far from his crowd of sycophants and disciples as possible. Erestor watched from his windows as the golden company trailed after him, their laughter pealing out across the corridors and courtyards of Imladris second only to Glorfindel's own, and he was incensed.  
  
It was one night, when the Midsummer feast was all but at a close, and the House of Elrond was full of laughter and drunken frolicking, that Erestor found himself at breaking point. Glorfindel was, as he so often was, the centre of attention. It had begun with a request from Lord Elrond himself that Glorfindel tell a story to bid the Midsummer farewell, as was customary. Glorfindel, bowing low, took his place in front of the revellers and at once began to tell tales of Nísimaldar and the Fragrant Trees of Aman. As his voice carried the sights and sounds of the fertile slopes around Eldalondë, the sea air thick with salt, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the boughs of the malinorni as it danced through their silver canopies, the crowd only became more enraptured.

Erestor too could not resist the lyrical trips and falls of his words as they painted the Western shores on the canvas of his mind. He could picture Glorfindel, in the armour of the House of the Golden Flower, a shimmer of sun amongst the silver of the trees, and it all but took his breath away. Erestor found his gaze lingering long after Glorfindel's story had ended, and even after the songs had begun and the wine had started to flow, he could not tear his eyes away. Until, that was, Glorfindel's gaze met his own, and he became painfully aware of himself. His chest clenched like a vice, and he felt a sudden desperate need to be as far away from Glorfindel as possible. He got up quite abruptly and wove his way through the crowd until he was clear of the courtyard and out into the cool, fresh air of the gardens beyond. He relished the shadows of the evening and the scent of cooling earth beneath his feet, but the tight feeling in his chest had barely loosened its grip, even as the rushing water of the Bruinen beside him drowned out the frantic beating of his heart.

Once across the bridge, he paused at the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.  
  
"My Lord Counsellor!"  
  
It appeared that Glorfindel had followed him out into the gardens as dusk had settled, and was loitering somewhat uncomfortably on the other side of the bridge. It was uncharacteristic of him, to be sure, but Erestor gave it little thought, pausing only for a moment before continuing on into the trees.  
  
"Pray, tell me, have I done something to offend you, Counsellor?" Glorfindel called out after him, his voice softer than usual in the pale moonlight. "For if I have, it was not my intention, and I am very sorry for it."  
  
Erestor turned to him, brow raised incredulously. "Lord Glorfindel, what possible slight could you have offered to someone such as myself?"  
  
"I am not quite certain, Counsellor, that was why I was asking."  
  
Looking at Glorfindel in this light, away from his companions, away from the firelight, and without the warmth of the sun on his cheeks, he seemed rather ordinary. This appearance was only further encouraged by the gentle wrinkle of concern between his brows. His heart slowing to a regular beat, Erestor had to resist the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the sight.  
  
"You have caused no offence, my Lord. If I have appeared cold towards you, it is only because it is in my nature. I am a solitary creature, and one of few words when I am not writing them, or offering them as counsel. The crowds at Midsummer are often a little much once the wine casks have been cracked open. I meant no slight in leaving so suddenly after your tale, I simply needed some air."  
  
All that Glorfindel could offer in reply was a soft "Oh" before his face broke out once more into a beautiful smile. Suddenly, Erestor was not sure how, only moments before, he could have considered him to be ordinary, as it appeared that the dawn had broken early over the Last Homely House.  
  
Feeling the colour return to his cheeks with a vengeance, Erestor looked away. "I have to say I am surprised, my Lord, that you had even noticed my presence, or lack thereof."  
  
The sun faded once more as Glorfindel regarded him strangely. "Whyever would you think that?"  
  
"As I mentioned before, I am a solitary creature when my services are not required, and I would be surprised if we had said more than two dozen words to one another before tonight."  
  
"Why should that mean I had not taken notice of you? Is a man's worth directly equivalent to the quantity of his words? If that is the case, then it seems I know many Great Men, all of whom are poor company and without a lick of sense between them." Erestor turned to face Glorfindel once more, and was surprised to see a wry smile on his face. "It would also seem, then, that I hold the Lesser in far higher regard than the Greater, as I would take a single word from you over a thousand from them."  
  
It was with these words that Erestor discovered the truth behind the fluttering in his belly and the warmth that now flooded his face almost entirely, and could no more ignore it than he could fight it.  
  
Soon Glorfindel began to seek him out, spending more and more time in his company, and despite his best efforts and protestations, Erestor found himself terribly in love with him. Erestor loved his laugh, and the rich timbre of voice. He loved the way that conversation flowed so easily between them Erestor was never bored in his company, whether they were talking about battle plans or the weather. He loved that despite his outgoing nature and general inclination to be social, Glorfindel never asked or expected Erestor to be anything other than what he was; a generally solitary, bookish person who fell asleep at his desk more often than his bed. He loved that in quiet moments his loud and carefree facade slipped away to something softer, muted and gentle. He loved that in these moments, when Glorfindel could be in the company of those willing to laugh and drink and sing the night away, he chose to be with Erestor in his small study, happy to sit in each other's company, doing and saying little else. He loved that the legendary, revered Glorfindel of Gondolin was, in reality, just a person - a kind and humble person who sat in Erestor's space, ruined his quills, messed up his filing system, and broke his heart with every brush of skin and quiet word. In short, Erestor loved him wholeheartedly and in his entirety, and every year that passed it killed him a little more.  
  
Sighing, he put the quill back in its pot and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He could feel the usual headache building, the one that came with too many thoughts of 'what if' and 'if only'. It never did anyone any good to dwell on impossible things, and he often spent hours at a time driven to distraction with the melody that grew louder in his head with every passing year. The longer it went on, the more he heard the song, singing reverently just out of sight. It called them all in time, that song that echoed the crying of the gulls and the taste of salt on bare skin. The irony was, of course, that the more intensely he felt the pull, the more willing he was to spend every waking hour with the source of all of his problems. If he only had another century before the fading in his heart forced him West, then he would spend every possible moment with Glorfindel. He would not squander the time he had. It had been Glorfindel since the moment they met, and would only be Glorfindel until the last setting of the sun. No one else even paid him mind. Erestor thought, perhaps, it was because they all knew. It was not a subtle affection that he had, despite all his efforts to hide it. Even Lord Elrond had once approached him to ask if there was any chance of his doing anything about it, but Erestor had shook his head sadly and replied that risking the friendship that they had on the hope of something more was too high a price to pay when the outcome was all too inevitable.  
  
He looked back at the missives that had yet to be signed and sealed, and the other correspondence that he had yet to even begin, then to the watery morning light that had swallowed the starlight in its rosy glow, and sighed once more. Perhaps it was time for a break after all.

Standing wearily, Erestor made his way out of his chamber, and down the stairs to the courtyard. Early morning was always pleasant in Imladris, but this morning felt odd. The air around him was strangely tense, hanging in the air, thick with anticipation of something, or someone. It was unusual, and unnerving, but had become more frequent of late. There had been something strange brewing for the past five decades or so, creeping in from the East. It had taken Glorfindel out on patrol far more frequently than Erestor liked, and there was a fearful part of him that wondered if there would be a time when he would not return. It was not, of course, out of a lack of faith in Glorfindel, he was more powerful even perhaps than the Lady Galadriel, rivalling even the high Istar when the occasion rose. No, rather it was a fear of the greater evils of the world that had first extinguished his light all those millennia before. There were still dark, creeping things in the world, long buried but not dead. The Gonnhirrim disturbed things that they no longer understood, whose existence had faded to myth, and whose warnings they no longer heeded, while the mortal Men were easily corrupted by greed and fear. So, it was not a fear of Glorfindel’s lack of skill or strength, or even, he supposed, a fear of those who meddled with the evils of the world, but rather that Glorfindel, as pure as his heart was, would give his life to save any and all of them. Perhaps it was selfish, but he hoped that he faded before the day Glorfindel failed to return.

As Erestor made his way down the long staircase to the dining halls to find something to break his fast, he noticed that there was a lot more commotion than usual. There were people hurrying up and down the stairs beside him carrying trays laden with nuts and dried fruits, which was not an uncommon occurrence, but others carried baskets filled with airy rolls of leavened bread, unusual fare in Imladris. As he reached the last stair he was greeted with a flurry of activity.  
  
"Merethdil, what is the commotion?" He asked the head cook as yet another elf in floury baking robes pushed past him to the stairs.  
  
The cook gave him a withering look and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "My Lord Counsellor, now is not a good time to come rifling through the larders."  
  
Erestor raised his hands in submission. "I meant no offence, Merethdil, I only came to break my fast early, as I did not make supper last night."  
  
Merethdil looked him up and down, the severity of his gaze not even slightly lessened by the streaks of flour and raw dough that adorned his face, rolled his eyes and gestured towards the second larder at the back of the room. "When do you ever make it to supper, Counsellor?” He said, dryly. “There is some way-bread and a flask of miruvor you may help yourself to, all the rest is going to our unexpected guests. _Faica umbar!_ "  
  
Erestor was not certain who these unexpected guests were, but there must have been an awful lot of them to have the kitchens in such a fuss. Perhaps his earlier feelings of disquiet were not quite as profound as he had thought them to be. Indeed, their guests appeared to be causing quite the stir, but not in a way that would cause anyone but the kitchens any real degree of alarm.

He picked up a small package of way-bread - wrapped in a large, waxy leaf, and bound with twine - and tucked the bladder of miruvor under his arm, before weaving his way back through the crowded kitchen and out into the courtyard he had come from.

Curiosity once more getting the best of him, Erestor followed a flustered kitchen hand, arms full of the unusual leavened bread, down the southernmost corridor, over the cascade, and back towards the West Wing. Even before he had arrived he could hear the general clamour of what must have been a great number of people, the general hum of conversation mingled with the clatter of mail and swords. It was unusual, indeed, to find any great number of people armed with anything more than a bow this side of the Hithaeglir, and Erestor could not help but make his way towards this nameless throng. They sounded as though they were in the main courtyard, though he could not see them through the thick foliage that lined the domed walkway and cast pale golden shadows on the floor beside him. Erestor’s curiosity did not, however, entirely outweigh his sense. He cared little for social interaction outside of his professional duties, and even then he preferred to keep diplomatic relations to ink and parchment. If he was to observe these mysterious guests without detection he could not simply stroll directly into the courtyard. So, he took the stairs towards the tower instead, hoping to stay hidden in the shadows of the balcony above. People, Erestor noted, rarely looked up.

As he emerged onto the balcony the clamour rose to greet him, and he finally saw the source of all the commotion. Below him, an assembly of Men were spilling into the courtyard from the road to the South. There were at least a hundred of them, from Erestor's best estimation, all remarkably tall, standing of a height with their coursers, and almost all of a height with Erestor's own kin. They appeared to be in good spirits, despite the water-stained cloaks and mud-caked breeches that betrayed a hard journey down from the mountains, laughing and talking genially with one another. They seemed nonplussed by the fussed kitchen-hands who wove between them, their trays of food in disarray as grubby hands tore hunks of bread from the platters. They were all soldiers of some description, of all ages - some calloused, their blonde hair almost silver, and beards that even the Gonnhirrim would not scoff at, others had barely a whisker on them, eyes still bright with naivety and enthusiasm of new blood - and all emblazoned with the white horse of Rohan.

It was unusual to see so many flaxen folk in Imladris, and for a moment it took Erestor by surprise. In fact, there was only one dark head amongst them, and there was no mistaking him for a Rider of the Mark. Lord Elrond glanced up, as though hearing his very thoughts, catching his eye and smiling warmly. Erestor sighed heavily, he had hoped to avoid any personal introductions of any kind, but there was no avoiding Lord Elrond's summons.  
  
"Ah! Counsellor Erestor, there you are!” He called, his voice the final nail in the proverbial coffin of Erestor’s anonymity. “We have unexpected - but not at all unwelcome - guests." Lord Elrond turned to the nearest man, as tall as Erestor, and as fair as his brothers, with a thick scruff of a beard and a gaze like warm honey. He was young, even for a Man, barely a weathered line on his face but for a set of pleasing creases at the corners of his eyes that echoed the frequent laughter that put them there. "This is Éomer of the House of Eorl, nephew to King Theoden of Rohan."  
  
The man, Éomer, shook his head minutely. "Éomer, son of Éomund," He said with a formal bow, but when he rose there was a glint of something wry in his gaze. "But please, I am merely one of the Marshals of the Riddermark, in no more need of a formal introduction than any of my brothers at arms."  
  
Erestor gave a shallow bow in return, hoping it masked the discomfort he felt at being caught spying from afar. "I bid you welcome to Imladris, Lord Éomer. I hope your stay here is restful." He turned to address Elrond once more. "With your leave, my Lord, I have some urgent correspondence I need to attend to."  
  
Elrond nodded in acquiescence, despite a knowing smile tugging at his lips. However, as Erestor turned to leave, the Rohirrim called his name. "I hope to see you at dinner, Counsellor."  
  
His brow furrowing almost imperceptibly, Erestor bowed once more in reply, and made his way swiftly back to his chambers. Not, however, before glancing back and catching Éomer's lingering gaze. His mouth quirked upwards as their eyes met, and Erestor could feel the colour rise in his cheeks before a fellow Rohirrim clapped him on the back, breaking the moment as swiftly as it had formed. Erestor watched as Éomer's smile widened, his demeanour changing to that of easy companionship as he turned to the group of his brothers. Gathering his robes, Erestor hurried in as dignified a manner as he could manage back to his chambers, turning the key in the lock, and resting heavily against the solid wood of the door. It was unlike him to get flustered, even around Glorfindel, yet this young Lord, Éomer son of Éomund, seemed to have managed it quite easily with nothing more than a glance and a smile. Though it was a very nice smile, he thought to himself as his own lips softened to something similar.

 

* * *

 

Erestor did not see Éomer or any of his kin that evening, as what he had told Lord Elrond had been the truth, the correspondences he had needed to write were urgent and numerous. There were several reports from the North and the South, but none yet from the patrols to the East. This worried him a great deal. It was unlike Glorfindel not to keep him updated, even in an unprofessional manner. He was so used to receiving poorly penned letters with sketches and asides in the margins, meant only for him, to be sifted and picked through before anything formal was presented to Lord Elrond. He would tell him of the men, of their gossip and conversation, and of the weather, and the state of the trees. He would often happen upon places that were familiar to him from a past life, and whether the memories were joyful or sad, he would describe them to him in great detail, and Erestor would feel closer to him even than if he were sat beside him. Glorfindel did not like to talk of the time before, as he, unlike most of Erestor’s kin, had experienced real loss. Not like the loss of a loved one going West, but rather the loss of a loved one in battle, screaming and careening to their deaths in the hope of a better life for those left behind. Yet, Glorfindel entrusted him with these memories, and it was such conversations that allowed him to hope.

Just as the night before, Erestor found himself burning his candles to the hilt until the pale dawn light trickled in, creeping across the flagstones until he could ignore it no longer. He looked at the pile of signed and sealed missives to his left, the waning stack of parchment to his right - and to the empty flask of miruvor resting on the half-eaten and not at all enjoyed way-bread - and sighed. Ordinarily it would be Glorfindel who would have made him stop, perhaps stolen a few pieces of parchment for "notes" until there was none left, and made some comment about having not eaten since the previous morning. Erestor would roll his eyes and acquiesce to breaking fast together, if only as an excuse to leave and pick up more parchment from the store rooms. Glorfindel would smile at him, bright as the breaking dawn, and Erestor would ache with joy and despair, but show no more emotion than a small, private smile in return. In this moment, however, Erestor would have happily endured that despair over the silence. Worry and exhaustion lead to mistakes, and he would not allow himself to slip. Instead, he took a deep breath and stood up decisively. It was better to take a break to watch the sunrise, than to finish by dawn with slapdash and sub-par correspondance.

  
  
The gardens were all but empty at this hour - those that had stayed to watch the stars did not often linger through the dawn, and those who revelled in the sun were not often found out of their chambers until they could feel the warmth of it on their skin. Erestor was pleased for the solitariness of the quiet hours of the morning, everything still soft and hazy, muted lavender tones yet to be washed green and gold by the morning light. There was a stillness too, every rustle of grass muffled by the blanket of dew adorning their blades, even the birds seemed to whisper their songs to one another.  
  
"It is not often that I find company in the small hours of the morning, my Lord Counsellor." Came a voice from behind him.  
  
Erestor turned to see the young Rohirrim, Éomer, standing behind him, hair still somewhat mussed from sleep. "My Lord Éomer, please excuse me if I disturbed you, I was merely taking a break from my duties to watch the sun rise."  
  
Éomer laughed softly. "Just Éomer, please. And your presence is no disturbance, I can assure you. Quite the opposite, in fact, I missed your presence at dinner last night."  
  
"Just Éomer..." Erestor mused, ignoring the way that Éomer's words warmed his cheeks and the very tips of his ears. "If that is to be the case, then you must simply call me Erestor. I am no Lord, though I will concede that I am a Counsellor, so I suppose you may call me that also."  
  
Éomer laughed again, but more brightly this time, and Erestor was struck by how pleasant the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth were. "Erestor then, or Counsellor if you suppose I may call you that. Do elves always work so long into the night that it is no longer night before they take a break? That must be a difficult existence indeed."  
  
"Elves do not need to sleep as frequently, nor as long, as Men." Erestor answered plainly.  
  
"Then perhaps," Éomer said quietly, eyes moving from Erestor's face to the rosy glow of the morning sky. "I would be more welcome amongst Elves than Men, as I often find that sleep evades me, and I dearly love to watch the sun rise."  
  
For a moment, with the dawn light bathing his golden skin, and a gentle smile softening his lips, Éomer was nothing short of radiant. They stood for a moment, watching the sun creep over the very tops of the mountains, turning the Bruinen to a stream of molten gold, and enchanting the finest of mists from the dew at their feet into a silken pool that lapped at their ankles. When Erestor glanced back to his companion he found that Éomer had, rather than watching the horizon, been watching him for some time. His gaze did not falter or change as their eyes met, only warming as his face broke into a smile. He was, Erestor thought, truly beautiful.  
  
"The sun is risen. Shall we break our fast together, Counsellor?" He said, gesturing back towards the house with a nod.  
  
Erestor thought about it for a moment, the dangerously familiar fluttering that had stirred in his chest, before inclining his head in acceptance.

 

* * *

 

"You told an untruth then, when you told Lord Elrond that you needed no grand introduction." Erestor cried incredulously across the table, the plates of breakfast lying forgotten between them. "Third Marshal of the Riddermark is a grand title indeed. Forgive me though, my Lord, but you appear to be very young to be such a Marshal."  
  
Éomer laughed brightly, though a shadow of self-doubt coloured it somewhat bitter. "That is often said, Counsellor, and I take no offence from it. I would like to believe it has something to do with my skill on horseback, or with a sword, but I expect it has a great deal more to do with my blood. I am nephew to the King, after all."  
  
Erestor regarded him carefully. "You would not have been trusted with such a position were you not competent."  
  
"Aye. I believe that I would be still of some use to the Mark even were I not who I am, but there are others who deserved the position at least as much as I. Of course, when the last Third Marshal was slain, and my Uncle asked me to take up in his stead, I could not refuse. In truth, I am not certain I am suited to it. My brothers respect me as much as the next rider, but not perhaps as much as they would were I as scarred and silver as the other Marshals."  
  
"Scars and silver temples do not a great leader make." Erestor replied stoically. "Many of the great leaders of the past were young. Your ancestors and those of my Lord Elrond accomplished many of the great deeds of Men before they reached their third decade. Why, was it not King Eorl, the first king of your own House, who ascended at five and twenty years?"  
  
For the first time Éomer seemed slightly abashed. "I suppose that is true. I had not thought of it in that way before." He paused. "Did you know him?"  
  
"Not personally, though I do remember his face from having seen him in passing. There is certainly a family resemblance."  
  
"I suppose six hundred years must be a blink of an eye for one such as yourself. It is no wonder you consider me so green."  
  
Erestor frowned. "I do not feel the years as keenly as I once did, but I do not consider you green, Lord Éomer, quite the contrary. If you are to use my age as a basis for any argument to your character it would have to be a positive one, as I am rarely stirred to conversation by even my own kin, but have been engaged with yours for many hours now."  
  
"It appears our argument has come full circle, for now I am questioning my age, and you are defending it." He replied, studying Erestor's face intently. "You continue to surprise me, Counsellor. I hope you do not tire of the aforementioned conversation, or my company, in the near future, for I am rather taken with yours."  
  
A flush of warmth flooded Erestor's cheeks under Éomer's appreciative gaze. Any response that Erestor may have concocted was cut off by the ringing of the mid-morning bell, a sound that startled him somewhat. "Is it truly mid-morning already?" He said weakly, thinking if all of the letters that were undoubtedly piling up outside his chambers at that very moment.  
  
"I believe so. It was not my intention to keep you for this long, but I found myself rather helpless to stop."  
  
Erestor laughed softly. "The fault was mine also. It is rare that I find conversation this diverting."  
  
"That sounds rather like my fault as well." Éomer replied wryly.  
  
"If you wish to be pig-headed about it." Erestor said flippantly before realising what he had said and turning with some horror back to Éomer. "I am so sorry, My Lord, I forgot myself for a moment." He stammered. "I am rarely this comfortable talking with anyone but Glorfindel, and I am used to such back-and-forth between us."  
  
Instead of the anger and hurt he had been expecting, Éomer's eyes were filling with tears as his chuckles burst into guffaws. "My dear Counsellor Erestor, you prove me right once again! There is never a dull moment in your company."  
  
"You are not offended?"  
  
Brushing the tears of laughter from his cheeks, Éomer shook his head. "Were I offended by such name calling I would fare very poorly around the Rohirrim. On the contrary, I am delighted to have broken your carefully constructed demeanour enough to have been deemed 'pig-headed' and will gladly be called so again if it means you are comfortable enough to forget that we are not friends of many years."  
  
"It does rather feel as though we are." Erestor replied. "Friends of many years, I mean."  
  
Éomer's bright gaze softened to something rather affectionate. "It does, indeed. Though it is strange to think that I have known you barely a full day, and have conversed with you for no more than four hours of that time."  
  
To be comfortable with another person after such a short time, or indeed after any length of time, was not something that Erestor was particularly familiar with. He kept a careful, professional demeanour with those he interacted with, and they, in return, seemed happy to accept that and never ask for more. All except Glorfindel, which was a thought that Erestor quite deliberately did not dwell on.

“I must take my leave, I am afraid, I have neglected my morning’s work, and must make haste to catch up. I fear you may not see me at supper this evening either.”

Éomer looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding slowly. “If that is the case, then I shall bring supper to your chambers. An Elf you may be, Lord Erestor, but you cannot live on starlight and sunrise alone.”

Erestor was somewhat taken aback. “My Lord Éomer,” he stammered. “That is very kind of you, but I would not wish to bother you. I am perfectly capable of making my way to the kitchens when I am finished.”

“It would be no bother to me, but if you wish some time alone, I will not argue with that. One’s own company is refreshing after so much time spent around a great many people. Or even just one very talkative person.” Éomer replied, the barest flush of shame warming his cheeks.

It was in this moment that Erestor saw how young he was, and could help but smile. “Thank you, Éomer. I am not fond of company, it is true, but I could grow fond of yours.”

With that he rose, pleased by the blush that crept up Éomer’s neck at his words. It was different from the shame he had seen in him before, and it was quite lovely to behold.

“Perhaps we shall see each other at dawn tomorrow, then?” He replied, his composure only barely ruffled by the boyish hope in his voice.

“We shall see.”

Erestor bowed, and walked away, not daring to look back until the sound of the cascade had once again drowned the sound of his hammering heart. Éomer appeared to have his head resting in his hands, much to the amusement of several of his brethren, who were laughing and clapping him on the back encouragingly. Erestor chewed his lip thoughtfully as he turned back to the house once again.

 

* * *

 

It was not only paperwork that accosted Erestor as he entered his chambers, but also a young Elf, reclining in his window, his ankles hooked over the window-ledge, and his long, proud nose in a book.

“Elladan,” Erestor said in greeting. “I had not expected you here. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Elladan, one of Lord Elrond’s sons, along with his brother Elrohir, had been a student of his when he was young. He had taught them both history, geography, and diplomacy, and he had watched them grow to be their father’s right hands. It had not always been easy, especially with Elladan, who was the more difficult of the two. He was bright and eager to learn, but of all three of Lord Elrond’s children, he was the most Human. Both he and Elrohir had mellowed with age, but there was still mischief in Elladan where there was less in his brother. He was cheerful and charismatic, with a tongue as sharp as Erestor’s own. Elladan was one of the few in Imladris who truly enjoyed a battle of wits with him, and was not afraid to speak his mind. They had grown to become quite close friends.

Elladan snapped the book shut and swung his legs down to the floor. “Why, Erestor, I have been waiting here all morning! What could possibly have kept you so long?”

The look in his eyes and the teasing lilt of his voice suggested Elladan knew precisely where he had been. Erestor hummed, taking a seat at his desk, and waving Elladan away dismissively.

“I was breaking my fast, Elladan, as I have frequently been told I should do at a more reasonable hour.”

Elladan raised a brow. “Merethdil will be pleased, I am sure. Pray, what has prompted such a change? Has Glorfindel not been all but dragging you to every meal for the past hundred years?”

Erestor’s mood soured at the mention of Glorfindel’s name. “Yes, well, Glorfindel is not here, and as I have already mentioned, I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

“As you have already mentioned? Who have you mentioned that to, Counsellor?” Elladan replied playfully. “Certainly not me! Why, the only other person who would dare suggest such a thing to you would be Glorfindel, but as you so correctly pointed out, he isn’t here.”

Erestor felt a flush of embarrassment. “I did not mean recently, I simply meant, I have mentioned it before, and it does not bear repeating.”

Elladan smiled and perched on the edge of the desk expectantly. “I meant no offense, Erestor, I only meant to say that you had not mentioned it to me. Perhaps you mentioned it to that handsome Rohirrim you were talking to in the Eastern Hall all of this morning?”

Pausing, Erestor gave Elladan a sharp look, to which he only shrugged. “It is not often I see you so engaged in conversation, and it has been a long time since you last smiled like that.”

Putting the quill down, Erestor turned to Elladan. “Like that? What do you mean _like that_?”

The look Elladan gave him was affectionate, but tinged with sadness. “Like you were truly happy, and not as though the very action of smiling was causing you some great pain. It warmed my heart to see it, Erestor. It is a good thing.”

Erestor felt his throat close tightly. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Elladan sighed and hopped off the desk deftly. “Erestor, you have been my mentor, confidant, and good friend since I was barely a century old. In all that time I have never seen you truly happy. There has always been a ghost in your eyes, and a shadow that haunts your steps. It haunts my father too, just as it haunted my mother. I will not allow it to take you the way it took her.”

Before Erestor could reply, Elladan had slipped out, leaving Erestor alone once again in the company of his stacks of missives.

 

* * *

 

The sun had set once again before Erestor had even completed half of the work that he should have done for how late the hour was. He pinched the bridge of his nose and relished the brief relief if granted him from the pounding behind his eyes. Perhaps Glorfindel was right, and he did work for too long. He resolutely took the next letter from the pile, gently broke the seal and read the contents with little interest. He was about to place it amongst the other reports when he noticed something troubling. Taking the third report from the opened pile, he skimmed the contents to find something similar. He removed another report a few below, and another below that one, and skimmed them all, his frown deepening with every one. Placing them down, he returned to the pile of missives from the week before, folded neatly on the shelf behind him waiting to be filed away in the West Tower Library, where all such reports were kept. Plucking out several from near the top of the pile, he compared them to those from earlier in the day with some horror. He had been distracted, it was true, but he found it strange that he could have overlooked such a detail from the Eastern patrols. Reports of orcs not only from the South, as would be expected, but also the East, tormenting the trade paths through the Gap of Rohan, but also forcing patrols to find shelter in the edges of Fangorn, as the swarms in the Undeeps were too numerous to dare opposing. Individually these reports would not have alarmed him, every couple of years the orcs would get brave and venture West, but never with this frequency, nor so suddenly. Erestor cursed under his breath and stood abruptly, rifling through the remaining papers for any other letters from the Eastern patrols. Finding a small number and tearing them open without finesse, he scanned the pages with alarm, finding similar reports among them.

Scooping the reports into a bundle under his arm he made his way to the West Tower Library, a tall spire whose upper floors were dedicated to the pursuit and preservation of knowledge. The walls were lined with tomes and scrolls from both weeks and centuries past, packed tightly together, labelled and kept meticulously. It was only one branch of the great libraries of Imladris, but it was only rivalled in size and age by the Great Library of Gondor, in the halls of old Osgiliath. It was not unusual for the librarians and bookkeepers to see Erestor in the library at this hour, but it was unlike him to treat the filing system with such blatant disregard, watching in horror as he rifled through the reports from over the last year. He plucked one from one shelf, three from another, spreading them across the desks, his eyes flitting from one to the other. Reports from the South and the East had seemed normal, for many years, then there was a change. After a point the scouts began to relay second hand the reports given to them by Woodland patrols. He had not noticed the change, as it would seem only natural to take their Greenwood kin at their word, but then, only recently had the reports become first-hand again. It started not six months before, with the first reports of overwhelming numbers of orcs lining the Eastern shores of the Anduin. Soon one report became two, then four, then every report he had received in the past week had reported unprecedented numbers of foul creatures.

There was no way that orcs and fell creatures of Mordor could have gathered and travelled all that distance in such numbers in a matter of mere months, which left only one conclusion. The elves of the Woodland Realm had been lying to them.

Erestor felt a cold wash of dread, followed by a burning anger as he slammed the missive in his hand down on the the desk, alarming the librarians even further. Soldiers would not endanger the lives of their brothers lightly, so it stood to reason that they only did so under orders.

Gathering the letters and taking the small candle in hand, he muttered half-hearted apologies to the bewildered bookkeepers and made his way through the winding corridors of the Main House once again, until this time he found himself at Lord Elrond’s door.

He knocked thrice and waited with bated breath. Elrond opened the door a moment later, clad in his nightgown, but not appearing to have been asleep. He looked Erestor up and down, then gestured inside with an incline of his head. Sitting back down at his desk, Elrond looked at Erestor expectantly.

“Pray, Counsellor, what has brought you to my door at this hour, and with such anxious haste?”

Erestor handed him the large bundle of letters. “These are all from the the Eastern and Southern patrols, My Lord.”

Reading their contents, Elrond’s expression darkened. “We have had reports such as these from the Eastern patrols before. Why now do you seem worried?”

“These,” He said, gesturing to the top of the pile. “Are all from the past three weeks, My Lord. I can see no way that their numbers could have so suddenly increased, unless we were previously receiving incorrect information.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Laying out some of the previous second-hand reports, he drew Elrond’s attention to the stark differences in the state of the Southern and Eastern borders according to each report. “I do not wish to cause any offense, or cast aspersions, My Lord, but I believe we have been fed misinformation from the Woodland Realm.”

Elrond’s frown deepened further. “Misinformation. What reason could Thranduil possibly have for sending us misinformation?”

“I do not know, but judging by these recent missives, I suspect he has been attempting to keep them at bay on his own. It is only now that they have spread as far as the Hithaeglir and the Gap of Rohan that Thranduil can no longer deny that he has neither the power, nor the strength of numbers to repel them. He is proud to a fault, as well you know.”

Elrond considered this for a moment. “That would explain the reports I have received from Glorfindel. It appears Thranduil has kept him in the Greenwood as all but a hostage, insisting he stay in the comfort and safety of his halls long after Glorfindel had planned to leave.”

A mix of relief and betrayal washed over Erestor at Elrond’s words. It was good to know Glorfindel was safe, but why would messages from Glorfindel go straight to Elrond and not through him? And why, even if these letters were too confidential for Elrond’s own Chief Counsellor to read, would Glorfindel not send him a separate message, simply to let him know that he was alive and well? It stung, but Erestor supposed he had no right to know Glorfindel’s business. They were friends and colleagues, that much was true, but no more than that. No matter how his heart longed for it.

“It would also explain why the Rohirrim were driven Westwards.” Elrond continued. “If their numbers are so many, and they came up from both the South and the East, the Rohirrim would have easily been cut off from their safe route home.”

Erestor nodded. “This is grave news. It would appear the situation in the East is worse than we had imagined.”

“I will send word to Glorfindel to dispatch a patrol to the Emyn Muil. I shall need you to send an urgent letter to Lothlórien. I must confer with the Lady Galadriel and find out what she knows of this.”

“Is there anything else you require me to do, My Lord?”

Elrond shook his head. “Not tonight. Send the letter with a trusted scout and then get some rest. In the morning, speak with Lord Éomer, and see if you can’t find out more of what drove them to our gates. It is strange indeed that they would come this far North and across the mountains without first seeking shelter with our kin.”

It pained Erestor to blemish a conversation with Éomer with such dark things, but he nodded dutifully, and left Elrond to his letters. For the first time since their meeting, Erestor was dreading a meeting with the young Lord of Rohan, and his old heart-ache had returned once more. However, despite his anxiety, and the dull throbbing in his chest, the gentle song in his head lulled him to sleep, his eyes closing to far-off cries of gulls, and his breath slowing to match the even eb and flow of the waves as he drifted into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Erestor woke to the pealing of the first morning bells. It was strange to have slept for more than his customary few hours, and his body felt well-rested, but his mind was tumultuous with thoughts of the previous evening’s revelations. It was times like this that he missed Glorfindel’s company. He always knew what to say to make him smile or laugh, or even just to keep his mind content, whether it be a heated debate that left his pulse racing - heightened by both the thrill of the argument, and the flush of lust that he felt whenever he took on Glorfindel - or a gentle song of times gone by, lulling him into a calm reverie. Glorfindel would see his distress and sit with him, and sometimes just being in his company was enough to soothe him. He longed to rest his head on his shoulder, and run his long fingers through those golden tresses. He wanted to hold him, and be held by him in return, to find some manner of peace in the synchronised beating of their hearts.

Breathing slowly through the vice-like pain in his chest, Erestor rose, bathed, dressed, and reluctantly made his way down to the makeshift encampment where the majority of the Rohirrim had been staying. Lord Elrond usually provided rooms and beds for his guests, but at a hundred heads, that was simply an impossibility. However, the Rohirrim were glad of the shelter, the food, and time to rest and heal their wounded. They had slept in far worse places, and in the early morning light, the waning candlelight flickering from inside the tents gave the encampment a dreamlike air, each one like a firefly, their lights winding through the woodlands like a stream of stars.

Erestor moved almost silently between them, greeting the men who were already sat by the campfires with a polite, but distracted nod. He had yet to see the man he had come to find, and with every moment he became more agitated. Éomer was a bright and brilliant man, with a strong heart and an incandescent smile, and Erestor hated the idea of anything dimming it, especially his own dark news. Weaving his way further into the camp, Erestor was forced to stop and ask a few of the men where he might find their young Lord. A few shrugged, but one said that he was used to taking extra watches in the small hours of the morning, so could often be found scouting the perimeter, regardless of whether or not there was a perimeter to be scouted, while another said that he would likely be found with the wounded, making certain that they were being taken care of as best as possible. So Erestor made his way back to the Main House around the perceived perimeter of the camp, watching as the forest floor turned from the deep blue of twilight, to the vibrant green of morning. When he did not find any sign of Éomer, he headed towards the House of Healing, through the long, white corridors, unnaturally lit with stones infused with starlight. It was said that it was the starlight that gave these chambers the healing powers that they possessed, but Erestor knew the true power lay in the Lord of those halls, and in his kin. Sure enough, with every room he checked he was greeted with a story of Lord Éomer having visited not a moment before, each account warm with friendship and respect. It struck Erestor that these men held Éomer in very high esteem, despite his age and relative inexperience. It was usual for young men in positions of power, often granted by those they were fortunate enough to share blood with, to be treated with disdain by those they commanded. With these men it was different, they had genuine affection for him, and judging by his dedication to their well-being, Éomer reciprocated it in kind. What Éomer could have done to earn such respect in his short years, Erestor did not know, but it both intrigued and enamoured him to the man. There must be something truly noble about him, and Erestor was keen to discover what it was.

Sure enough, at the very end of the corridor, in the final and largest of the healing rooms, filled with six of the Rohirrim’s wounded, was Lord Éomer. He was sat in a chair at the far end, next to one of the men who was awake, and was deep in conversation with him. The man smiled weakly, and Éomer smiled back in return, but his face was hard with concern. He placed a hand gently, but firmly on the man’s arm, in a promise of something, Erestor was sure. Erestor felt a hum of affection at the sight of this show of devotion to his men. To Éomer, these were not just people for him to command, they were his brothers and his friends. He could see a little better now why they respected him.

It pained him to break the moment, but he had a task to perform. He cleared his throat quietly and called his name.

Éomer’s head shot up, and upon seeing Erestor in the doorway, his expression brightened immediately. “Erestor! It is good to see you again so soon.” He said a quiet word of farewell to the man in the bed, and stood to greet him properly. As he got closer his smile softened, and he took a long, lingering look at Erestor, as though he were drinking him in in the morning light.

Erestor ignored the pleased blush that was threatening bloom on his cheeks, but could not help but smile in return. Éomer’s smile was, as he was coming to realise, quite infectious. “My Lord Éomer, good morning. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all, you are never interrupting me.”

“I was hoping you would join me in the Summer Garden, there is something I wished to discuss with you.”

Nodding, Éomer followed by his side as they walked back through the bright hallways, and out into the warmth of the mid-morning sun. They took the path beneath the canopies of silvery willows that draped over the stone, domed walkway towards the brightest of Lord Elrond’s gardens. The Summer Garden, unlike the moonlit expanses of forest below them, was carefully manicured, with sweeping flowerbeds in shades of amber, vermillion and midnight purple, planted in intricate teardrops that embraced one another in a swirling dance of petals and foliage. There were bursts of bright colour around every corner, creeping up the trellises and draping themselves in fragrant cascades over the arched pathways. Éomer trailed his fingertips over the silken petals of every flower they passed with a reverence of someone who had never known such gardens existed. It took Erestor by surprise, the tenderness with which he regarded this frivolous gardens.

“I have never seen a garden such as this.” He said softly. “I did not know that plants could grow this way, or that they could be so bright.”

Erestor’s answering smile was small but warm. “Many of these plants were brought North and East through trade and diplomacy. Elves dearly love plants, you see. There is something of the Valar in things that grow and flourish in soil and sunlight.”

“We grow only what can be used.” Éomer replied. “Our land is not fertile, our plants are small and hardy, and anything grown is hard fought for. I could never imagine growing plants simply for the joy of looking at them.”

A pang of pity and guilt crept into Erestor’s heart. He knew that life for many of the people of Eä was a harsh and thankless one, but he had barely stopped to think that any Lord of Men could have such a life. It struck him that he knew very little of Rohan, or, in fact, of Éomer. In all their many hours of conversation, they had spoken of the Rohirrim, of their journeys, their battles, and Éomer’s position within the Mark, but sat in the safety and splendour of the Last Homely House, Erestor had never asked him about home.

“What plants grow in the Riddermark?” Erestor asked him softly.

“Crops, of course. Grain for bread, and grass for the livestock, and some hardy roots that we can boil and salt and keep for the winter.” Éomer paused, his face solemn for a moment, sad in a way that Erestor had not seen before. It pained him to see a face normally so happy looking so sorrowful. “And Evermind.”

“I do not know that plant.”

Éomer laughed sadly. “Perhaps not. It is a white flower, small and delicate as starlight. It grows of the graves of my ancestors. On the graves of my parents.”

They both were silent for a moment, the only sound between them the far-off melody of birds in the forest below, carried on the gentle breeze in flurries like snow. Closing his eyes, Éomer continued. “It grows most abundantly on the slopes of Halifirien. It might look frail, but it is persistent. It grows between the rocks of the graves of your Lord’s kin, too.”

“Alfirin.” Erestor breathed. “We call it alfirin. Immortal. It remembers lives lost, and through memory they may live eternal.”

Éomer smiled sadly. “No man may truly die while he lives in the hearts of those who loved him.”

Erestor felt guiltier now than he had before. He had brought Éomer out to the gardens to talk of dark and brooding things, or orcs and war, and instead Éomer had opened his heart to him, and Erestor was loathe to do anything but listen.

“Tell me of your parents.”

So, Éomer did. He spoke of the steel beauty and iron will of his mother, Théodwyn, the very example of a woman of Rohan. She had grace and elegance, as any highborn Lady would be expected to have, but had as stern a countenance and commanding an air as any Lord, even her brother the King. His father, he said, had been Chief Marshal under her brother, and had loved her from afar for many years before he gathered the courage to ask King Théoden for her hand. The King had laughed heartily at his request, not because he did not think Éomund was suited, but rather because he knew that his sister would have his head for assuming that her whims could be dictated by her brother, King or no. She was, indeed, fiercely displeased. So displeased, in fact, that she refused his hand half a dozen times before she finally gave in. His uncle would often tell Éomer that Théodwyn had loved Éomund deeply from the start, but would not let him live under the misconception that she would subdued by any man against her will. Another man might have taken offense at this, but Éomund loved her for her spirit more than anything else, and Théodwyn was glad for it. When Éomer spoke of his father there was a pride that glowed outwardly, and when he spoke of his mother, a tenderness and respect. When he spoke of his sister, Éowyn he shone with all three.

“You must love your family dearly.” Erestor said, finally, after the sun was a great deal lower in the sky than he had planned.

Éomer nodded. “There is nothing I would not do for them. I live to keep them safe, and I would die for it too.”

There was such conviction and certainty in his voice, as though his death were already written so, that Erestor felt his throat tighten with unbidden emotion. It was said that there was much passion in Men, but he had not been quite prepared for the intensity of it. He cleared his throat, though when he spoke his voice was still rough.

“I have something urgent I need to discuss with you, and as much as it pains me to say, it cannot wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Éomer’s brow knit together. “I apologise.”

Erestor shook his head and continued. “There is a matter of great importance, and severity that has come to our attention over the past few days. We believe it may have something to do with the attack on your company.”

As Erestor explained what he and Lord Elrond had discovered the night before, Éomer’s frown deepened.

“That would explain a lot of what has been happening over the past few months. There has been a marked increase in stolen and mutilated livestock on the North-Eastern plains.”

“They are bold enough to ransack your lands?” Erestor asked with some alarm.

“That and more. After the death of my father, my uncle took to fortifying the Eastern borders, but a decade later those fortifications were overwhelmed and we have all but lost the farmlands by the Entwash. Our patrols have been overrun by orcs more times than I can count, but never in as many numbers as we experienced before our retreat here. We are a hundred men strong, but were forced through the mountains by their raids.”

Erestor considered this for a moment, a dark suspicion creeping into his thoughts. “Raids? As though they were planned?”

“Not planned, per say, it was no ambush, but they have appeared on far more of our patrol routes than can be considered coincidental. There is certainly evidence of some sort of organisation.”

Organised raids, stolen lands and livestock, and a strange silence from their kin. There was something dark brewing and it set Erestor’s teeth on edge.

“Why then flee across the mountains and so far North? We are not the only refuge North of Rohan.”

Éomer nodded. “That is true, we had a long and unplanned journey here. We were scouting the Eastemnet, not far from the banks of the Anduin, when we discovered evidence of a large pack of orcs, at least as large in size as half of our company. Knowing that they were fewer in numbers, we followed their trail North, believing these to be the creatures who had raided the Eastern farmlands. We followed them through the Wold and across the river North of the Fields of Celebrant. There we happened upon some Easterlings and came to blows with them, losing the orcs for a time.

It took us a number of days to find them again, by which time they had moved further North and into Mirkwood. We followed them some way towards a dark fortress in the distance, but made it no further East. That forest felt sick, it was stifling, and it spooked many of the men, as well as the horses.

We thought the venture lost entirely, and had planned to meet with the First Marshal and his company who had been scouting in the Eastern reaches of Dunland when we were assaulted by a group of orcs more numerous an organised in their attack than any we had encountered before. We fought them off as best we could, but with every victory another swathe appeared from the dark of the trees. We were forced further Northwards across the Gladden Fields, and it was here that I made the decision to take the Redhorn Pass. It worked, but we were far from home, tired and some of us injured, with practically no supplies left.

We followed the Loudwater North, knowing that the only safe haven within distance was Rivendell. Without your hospitality, we would not have survived this ordeal. I owe you my life, and the lives of my men.”

It was a lot to take in. Orcs not only travelling as far North as the Greenwood, but apparently coming from _within_ the Greenwood itself, and in such numbers as to overwhelm a band of Rohirrim a hundred strong. The fortress he had mentioned was troubling indeed, as the only place Erestor could think of was Amon Lanc, though it had been many years since it had been called as much. If this was where the orcs were coming from, it savoured strongly of something truly sinister.

“Thank you, Éomer, I am sorry to have troubled you with this.”

“It was no bother at all.” Éomer replied, shaking his head. “Though, I had rather hoped that you had brought me out to a very beautiful part of the garden so that we might be alone.”

Erestor frowned. “That is precisely what I meant by it. These matters are severe, and not to be overheard by prying ears.”

“That is not quite what I meant.” Éomer said with a wry smile.

“Then what did you mean?”

A single cocked brow and an incredulous look was all he got in answer. Then, with a sharp laugh that savoured somewhat of bitterness. “You can truly be obtuse.”

Erestor was quite taken aback by the sudden insult. “In what way am I being obtuse, Lord Éomer?”

“It is nothing, Counsellor, I am sorry if I offended you. I have only let my emotions run away with me again. It is a fault of youth, or so I have been told.”

With that Éomer bid Erestor a good day, and made his way alone back along the garden path and up towards the House. Leaving Erestor alone once again, and not a little perplexed.

 

* * *

 

As the afternoon stretched out long and warm over the horizon, Erestor found himself once again outside Lord Elrond’s door. After a moment he heard Elrond’s voice calling him in. He was, as expected, sat at his writing desk, quill dark with ink, and several sheets of parchment by his side.

“Did you speak with Lord Éomer?” He said as Erestor closed the door behind him.

“I did.”

“What did he have to say?”

Erestor relayed what Éomer had told him, and his own suspicions about Amon Lanc.

“So, you believe there is once more darkness building in Dol Guldur?”

Erestor nodded gravely. “From Lord Éomer’s report, that appears to be the most logical conclusion. There is a sickness in the Greenwood, as there has been for centuries now. You know of what once dwelled there.”

“I know well of that corruption, though I had thought it dealt with. If this is true, then things are far worse even than the worse of what we had feared before.”

“What is there to be done?”

“I shall wait for the envoy from Lothlórien, and inform them that I require an audience with their Mistress. I may even have need of Mithrandir once more, though he is flighty, and often more trouble than he’s worth.”

Erestor’s mouth quirked upwards at this. Elrond was fond of the Istar, but their relationship was tumultuous at best, but it was always interesting to see a battle of wits between the two.

“And Lord Éomer? What information should we give him and his men? We cannot simply allow them to return home when the danger that lies in wait is so great.”

“I do not think it wise to divulge information on something so tenuous as omination - no offense to yourself, Erestor, your intuition is so often correct, and well respected by myself and the rest of the court - however forewarning and caution is advisable, and perhaps a guard to travel alongside them as far as Southern Dunland.”

Erestor nodded, expecting something more, but Elrond was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “What do you make of him, our enigmatic Lord of Rohan?”

“I am not certain, My Lord. He is - different than I expected.”

“You seem to enjoy his company.” He said, not looking up from the parchment on his desk.

“What do you mean?”

Glancing up for a moment, Elrond gave him a strange look, before returning to his letter. “Only that you rarely spend time conversing with anyone but Glorfindel about anything other than what your duties demand.”

Erestor considered this for a moment. “I suppose I do enjoy our conversations, but I cannot fathom him out.”

“Oh?” Elrond said, pausing in his writing once again.

“Earlier, once we had spoken about the trouble he had in the East, he told me that he had rather hoped that I had taken him aside for something else, did not tell me what for, and then called me obtuse!”

Elrond muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _you certainly are that_ before putting his quill back in its pot, clearing his throat and looking pointedly at Erestor. “Perhaps you need to get to know him better. He seems to be a man of good moral standing, at least from what his brothers have said, and unfailingly loyal, particularly to his family. If there are any grievances between you, I am sure they are not unfounded.”

“My Lord Elrond, are you implying that I have somehow offended him?”

He shook his head. “I am implying nothing, other than that it appears to be doing you good to be spending time around someone other than Glorfindel, and that continuing to do so would probably be in your best interests.”

“I see now where Elladan gets it.” Erestor replied testily.

Elrond, taking up his quill once again, ignored him quite deliberately, and Erestor took this as his cue to leave. However, before he reached the door, Elrond called out to him once more.

“You are someone who chooses his words wisely, and I value that enormously, but sometimes it is good to remember that not all words must be wise to be said. Some words that are not wise are, in fact, more important than those that are, and should be said without hesitation, before you are no longer able to say them.”

With that, Erestor left Elrond to his writing, thoroughly confused by the riddle set before him, and quite certain that Lord Elrond had already been in contact with Mithrandir, for who else could have inspired him to convolute his words in such a manner.

 

* * *

 

Erestor spent a great deal of that evening thinking on his conversation with Éomer, playing it over in his head, to little avail. His thoughts were further muddied by Elrond’s advice. What did he mean by saying that not all words had to be wise? Of course, Erestor knew that, it was only common sense, but why are some unwise words more important than wise ones? Surely something that has take a good while to mull over and is said only after great consideration would always be of more significance than something said without thought or mediation. Furthermore, insinuating that the time he spent with Glorfindel was not good for him was, while entirely accurate, entirely preposterous. Elrond knew of his affections, and knew that the time he spent with Glorfindel was the most blissfully happy he could possibly be, despite it also being the most painful. It was entirely possibly to be happy and be hurting, and not let one spoil the other.

There was a knock at his chamber door that scattered his thoughts to the wind. He got up to open the door, and was surprised to find Éomer stood quite sheepishly outside.

“Éomer, what brings you here?”

“I came to apologise, and offer an explanation.”

“Please come in.” He said, gesturing to his chambers. “There is no need for apologies, though I will admit, I am curious as to what I did to offend you.”

“Offend me?” Éomer laughed as he closed the door behind him. “You have done nothing at all to offend me. It was my own bullheadedness that caused the whole thing, and I have no one to blame but myself.”

Erestor frowned. “Please, do explain.”

Éomer smiled guiltily. “I believe I am falling in love with you.”

“Love?” Erestor stammered, his heart thudding erratically at the word.

Éomer nodded and scratched the side of his nose distractedly. “I know it must sound as though I am trivialising it, and to Elves I am sure love is a far more profound thing that can only be earned and grown over a thousand years, but to Men,” He paused, looking with unbridled fondness at Erestor. “We fall very hard and very fast. The kingdoms of Men have been made and destroyed in a matter of days for the sake of love.”

Erestor’s head was spinning. He had a thousand questions, but the only one that passed his lips was: "Why me?"  
  
Éomer was somewhat put out by the question. "Why not you?"  
  
"There are far fairer Elves in Imladris than I."  
  
"Perhaps, but none nearly as captivating." Éomer posited.  
  
"What do you mean by that? I am dull, irritable, and opinionated. People rarely seek out my company. Why, not two hours ago Lord Elrond was complaining that I never spend time with anyone but Glorfindel"  
  
"Then he must be the only one with any sense.” Éomer replied. “Any one who spends more than a few hours in your company couldn't help but be bewitched by you, body and soul."

Erestor stopped once more at this. He opened his mouth to reply, but none came. He closed it once more and shook his head.

“I am sorry, Éomer, I had not - that is to say it had never occurred to me that you might - I may need a minute to -”

Éomer laughed sadly. “Please, do not apologise. I did not come here expecting you to give me your heart. I fear it may be too late for that. I only came to apologise and explain. I understand if you do not wish to speak to me again, if the embarrassment is too great. I am certainly embarrassed to have made such a fool of myself, but I do not regret it. I could not have gone another moment without telling you how I felt. How I feel.” He waited for a reply, but none came. Erestor only stared blankly at him. Éomer nodded resolutely. “Good Night then, Counsellor.”

With that, Éomer turned to leave, but before he could close the door behind him, Erestor roused from his stupor, and with courage he did not know he possessed, took Éomer’s wrist in his grasp.

“Wait, Éomer, please.”

Éomer turned back, looking at once devastated at their closeness.

“You are right, my heart does belong to another, and I expect it will stay that way until the end of time, but there is no hope in it. I have spent so many years expecting to spend my life alone, I never for once thought that I might ever have any feelings genuinely requited.”

Éomer seemed taken aback, his eyes searching Erestor’s face for some hint of dishonesty.

“I cannot promise you anything, not even the certainty of my feelings, but know that I have not been this happy in anyone’s company for a thousand years. If you could only give me some time to think, then -”

Erestor could not find the words to express the hope and longing that Éomer had awoken in him, so instead he took a step forwards and pressed a chaste kiss to Éomer’s stunned lips. Letting go of Éomer’s wrist, Erestor took a step back and watched as Éomer touched his lips reverently, before his face burst into something brilliant and joyful, barely tempered with hesitance, and warm enough to make Erestor’s heart skip a beat.

“Good Night, my Lord Éomer.”

Beaming, Éomer bit his lip and nodded. Saying nothing more as he stepped backwards, unwilling to turn from Erestor’s door until it was firmly closed, and the candlelight in his window had faded to a soft, amber glow.

 

* * *

 

Elladan was sat in the Summer House, looking idly out at the gleaming river in the valley below when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Elrohir, brother,” He said drolly, for he knew his brother’s footsteps as he knew his own. “What brings you to my thinking-place this fine morning?”

His brother sat down next to him, and leant over the balcony’s edge, Elladan’s mirror image. “I saw a peculiar thing as I was returning from the East Tower Observatory last night.”

Elladan turned back to face Elrohir and raised a brow. “Oh?”

There was a glint of something furtive in his expression as their eyes met. “The young Horse Lord stood outside the chambers of our dear Counsellor in the dead of night.”

Elladan’s other brow joined the first, indeed this was a surprise, but he played along with his brother’s farce. “You don’t say? And, pray tell, what is so unusual about seeing such a thing?”

Elrohir shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “Nothing, I suppose, except that not ten minutes later I saw him leave again, but not before he and our dear Erestor shared a clandestine kiss in the doorway.”

“No!” Elladan cried.

“I saw it with my own two eyes,” Elrohir replied, his grin widening. “Otherwise I would not have believed it myself.”

“I thought it was one-sided. I thought Erestor-”

“As did I.”

Elladan scratched his chin. “Glorfindel will have quite the shock when he returns to find he’s missed his chance.”

“Are you certain Glorfindel even knows there was a chance to have missed?” His brother replied with some incredulity.

“I’m certain of it. I may not have paid attention to the history in our history lessons, brother, but I paid attention to other things.”

Elrohir considered this for a moment. “How serious do you think it is?”

“You said he was only there for ten minutes?” Elrohir nodded. “I have a little more faith in our Counsellor than that. I don’t think it’s gone too far. Though, what harm could it do if it had?”

“Glorfindel would be heartbroken.”

Elladan’s lip curled disdainfully. “Serves him right for being oblivious for all those years. You know, I think Erestor has loved him from the moment he set eyes on him. I am not certain Glorfindel thought much of him for at least two or three centuries, and even then I’m certain there was nothing more to it than easy companionship. You can see why Erestor gave up hope.”

“You are not being fair to him. He is not like you or I, you know. He is Glorfindel of Gondolin!” Elrohir admonished. “He has lived and died and lived again, and lost many a friend and lover, I am sure. You cannot think he is leaving Erestor’s affection unrequited out of spite?”

“He could be Imin of Cuiviénen, that doesn’t excuse him for ignoring the quite blatant affection being shown to him for close to three full centuries. If it is not spite, Elrohir, then it must be quite unbelievable ignorance! Everyone else could see it, and yet he couldn’t? I find that hard to believe.” Elladan snapped, with some venom. He surprised himself with how protective he suddenly felt for his friend and mentor. Erestor was like family, as close to an elder brother, or beloved uncle as they had. “I hear him singing sometimes, you know? Erestor. That same song that mother used to hum before she left for the boats.”

“What?” Elrohir seemed genuinely surprised at this, concern creasing his brow.

“I know he hears it, you can see it in his eyes. He deserves better than that.”

Elrohir’s frown deepened. “He would be happier with Glorfindel.”

“Perhaps.”

The two of them were quiet for a moment, looking out at the Summer Gardens, and woodlands and valley below.

“What should we do?” Elrohir’s voice was soft, and would have sounded almost plaintive if it weren’t for the steely determination in his words.

“I suppose it really depends on Glorfindel.”

“How so?”

Elladan turned back to his brother at last and smiled. “Well, brother dearest…”

 

* * *

 

Erestor lay in his bed watching the dawn break through his windows and touched a finger to his lips where he had impulsively kissed Éomer the night before. For the first time in a long time he had done something without thinking about it for hours, days, or weeks beforehand, and it had been glorious. It wasn’t that he hadn’t kissed anybody since realising his feelings for Glorfindel, only that as the centuries passed he felt increasingly that it simply wasn’t fair to give himself half-heartedly to someone, when he had already given himself wholly to Glorfindel. This felt different somehow. Perhaps it was the knowledge that no matter how involved they became, it would only ever be temporary, or perhaps it was simply that Éomer did not know about his affection for Glorfindel, and if he did would not understand the implications of such a love. Glorfindel the great and glorious Twice Born warrior of old, who sacrificed himself fighting a Balrog in the war against Morgoth. These things were nothing but stories to a Man such as he. It was such a hopeless love. Perhaps it was time to accept a love that wanted him back. A simpler love, to be sure, but no less real. He groaned and sat up, looking out at the warm glow of the morning sun. Yes, perhaps it was time.

It was strange, walking through the corridors of his home, to be so sure of himself in this manner. He was used to trusting his wit and wisdom in diplomacy and war, but never in love. He wove his way once more through the maze of the Rohirrim campsite, and down to banks of the Bruinen. There he found Éomer, walking by the water’s edge, the sunlight catching in his golden hair, and Erestor knew that this was something he had to do.

He called his name, and the man turned to face him, a warm, gentle smile on his face, but the furrow in his dark brow betrayed an uncertainty, perhaps that Erestor had come to tell him that the night before had been a mistake, and that he had thought about it and decided to decline. Erestor wanted to kiss the frown from his face so desperately.

“Erestor. Have you broken your fast this morning?” He shook his head and Éomer laughed. “I am afraid I ate with my brothers, though I will happily accompany you to the kitchens should you wish me to. Only if you wish me to.”

“Éomer,” He said, suddenly breathless. “Actually, what I came to say was that I have decided- that is to say I would be honoured to accept your courtship, in whatever capacity you wish to offer it.” Éomer’s smile burst across his face, incandescent. “I understand if this is only something that can last until you leave Imladris, but I would have those moments together if I can. No matter how brief.”

Éomer stepped forward and rested a hand on Erestor’s hip, bringing them together. Erestor flinched, but relaxed into it, letting his head fall forward until their foreheads rested against one another, their noses touching.

“I would have whatever you wish to give, for however long I may have it.” Éomer breathed, the joy audible in his voice.

“I am afraid I am not certain exactly how much I am able to give, but I- Éomer, I care about you more than I had ever expected to. I feel- I don’t know how to express exactly how I feel, only to say that it has been a long time since anyone made me feel this way.”

“I do not mean to sound selfish, but I hope that I am the only one who does from now until our time together is ended.”

Erestor felt himself flinch once more. He wished there was a way to let Éomer know that his heart was not his to give quite yet, but that perhaps, with time to heal, he could take a piece of it with him when he went. If Éomer noticed the brief stutter in his movement, he did not say so, only pulling away slightly to reach up and run a thumb over his cheek bone affectionately. Erestor felt himself melt into it. This affection was so unfamiliar, and he felt tears begin to pool in the corners of his eyes. This Éomer did notice, brushing them away as they fell.

“Come now, love,” He said, so gently Erestor could feel his heart break just a little. “Now is not a time for tears. Save your tears for our farewells. For now, I want to know you better. Where is there, in this vast, beautiful home of yours, that I have not explored. Show me the places that bring you peace and happiness.”

Smiling once more, Erestor pressed a kiss to Éomer’s palm, before taking his hand in his own, and leading him back towards the house.

He took him first to the West Tower Library, where he was met with disapproving looks from the librarians, who disliked even their own kin trespassing in their hallowed halls. He paid them no mind, taking out scrolls and tomes that were his favourite to pore over, leading Éomer to the seat in the Southernmost windowsill, where they both sat, Éomer’s arms wrapped around his waist, as he read to him. There was Elvish poetry, his tongue dancing through the trips and trills of his native Sindarin, and the less familiar but more intricate Quenya. He translated the verses as Éomer’s fingers trailed up and down his arms, and relished suppressing the pleased shivers the action caused. Then Éomer read to him in turn, great tales of grandeur that Erestor knew by heart, but that took on a different meaning in the deep, rough tones of Éomer’s voice, reverberating through his chest. After many hours, Erestor wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and enjoy the simple contentment of being in someone else’s arms, and Éomer was quite happy to comply.

Once the sun was low in the sky, and the librarians had finally managed to shoo the two of them out of their warm nook, Erestor took Éomer deep into the woods, down by one of the smaller tributaries, where the forest was dark and quiet, but for the burble of the water, and the gentle, leathery beating of bats wings. They sat in the dark for a time, Éomer pressing gentle, whiskery kisses to Erestor’s temple as he rested his head on his shoulder. Until, one, by one, little pinpricks of light, small and brilliantly green, began to flicker into life. Soon the trees and undergrowth around them were filled with fireflies, moving silently as they seemingly blinked in and out of existence. Filled with a sudden childlike awe, Éomer reached out to catch one in one large palm, but when he opened his hand again, there was nothing there. Erestor laughed brightly at his failure, and soon Éomer was laughing with him, and it struck him that he had not been this happy in a very long time.

The two of them lay down in the thick undergrowth, the scent of earth and twilight blossoming around them, and though he was hesitant at first, Erestor kissed Éomer for the second time. He could feel Éomer’s smile as he kissed him back, careful and tender despite the scratch of his thick beard. It was blissful, and something beautiful blossomed in his chest, but in this moment Erestor knew that this was never going to be. It was a dream, a glorious dream filled with poetry and fireflies, but no more than that. He could not love this man the way he loved him. He could taste it on his lips, the steadfast love that was growing within him. Compared to the glowing embers of his own affection, it was a blazing fire, and he could never give enough to truly satisfy its hunger. He would be overwhelmed, engulfed in it, and he might not have even minded, were it not for the tiniest sliver of hope that he still clung onto, that tiny thing that he would hold dear until the day he died. The hope that perhaps there was a time for he and Glorfindel, a time for them to be together.

He sighed against Éomer’s lips, and curled up against his chest. “I should go.”

Éomer sighed in return. “I had a feeling you were going to say that. You went so still. You were thinking of them, the one who has your heart, I could tell.”

He sounded suddenly so sad that Erestor lifted his head and pressed a kiss to his lips once more. “I am sorry.”

“Do not be. If I truly minded that, then I would never have opened my heart to you, or accepted your affection in return.” Éomer said as he propped himself up on his forearms. “I hope to see you tomorrow, and the day, after, and every day until I depart. I hope to share my love with you, even if it is nothing more than a balm to your heartache, because you are truly exceptional, and deserve all of the love I have to give.”

“You greatly overestimate my worth, Éomer, and underestimate theirs.”  
  
For the first time, Éomer appeared agitated. “I do not know if this person is Elf or Man, but if they cannot see how truly exceptional you are, then they certainly do not deserve you."  
  
"You don't know what he-"  
  
"I do not care.” Éomer said forcefully. “Your love could be for the great Witch of the Golden Wood and I would think her unworthy. You are fascinating, you are dedicated, you are skilled, and passionate, and, Erestor, you are beautiful. Were I to take you back to Edoras they would not care for your gender or your position, they would simply see you as you are and be as taken with you as I am."  
  
"As I said before, I am far from the fairest Elf in Imladris, I do not believe your kin would find me any more beautiful than my own."  
  
"Your kin are fools if they do not see it. You are fair of face, as are all Elves, but the starlight does not caress them the way it caresses you. When they smile it is often, indeed, but muted and polite. When you smile I feel graced by it, as it is rare and pure and true. Your skin is like moonlight, and your hair like the night sky around it." He moved closer, pressing another kiss to his forehead. "Your brow is severe, and your countenance prickly, to be sure, but life needs balance, and I am cheerful enough for the both of us."  
  
Erestor could hardly breathe as Éomer's nose touched his own, and their breath mingled in the night air. "I would worship you, Counsellor, with my words and my hands and my mouth."  
  
He traced the curves and shadows of Éomer's face with his fingertips in reverence. "I do not understand it, but I want- I want- _I want-_ "  
  
Éomer's laugh was hoarse as he moved his hands to rest on Erestor's hips, bringing them closer. "I do not care if you do not understand yet, for I shall take my time in showing you."  
  
"How would you show me?" Erestor asked, shakily.  
  
Éomer shuddered with want, choosing to reply only by trailing his kisses down Erestor's long, pale neck, grazing his collar bones with his teeth.  
  
Erestor arched towards him, breath coming in heavy and stuttering. As the fireflies drifted like lazy stars around them, Éomer made good on his promise, and for the first time in over five centuries, Erestor felt the blinding pleasure of two souls becoming one. For the first time since he had lost his heart, he felt healing in his breast and a song on his tongue that tasted instead of sea air and ocean waves, like sweat and heat and earth. So this was what it felt like to be held in the arms of someone who loved him. It was blissful.

With Éomer sleeping soundly, his nose in the crook of his neck, and their naked limbs tangled around one another, Erestor felt he could finally give in. If this was to be the last of his trysts on this Earth, then it was well worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

Glorfindel was cheerful as he and Asfaloth cleared the edge of the woodland, the canopy giving way to swathes of blue sky, and ahead the gleaming white walls and pillars of Imladris that appeared almost effervescent as they reflected the afternoon light. It had been a surprisingly long few months in Thranduil's kingdom, the Greenwood was not what it had once been. The rich, deep woods - loamy underfoot and alive with a whole manner of vibrant plants and creatures in its towering canopies - was only growing sicker with each century, and Thranduil appeared to be doing little to help it. So long had it been sickening that the Men no longer called it the Great Greenwood, instead they called it Mirkwood, and they steered clear of it as much for the cloying, festering atmosphere as the paranoid Elves who guarded it. There was something bothering King Thranduil, something that kept him fearful and suspicious, something the Lord Elrond had told him to keep an eye on. That message in itself was enough to put him on edge, and made the already stifling atmosphere all but unbearable.

In comparison, Imladris was a clear as a mountain stream, and just as refreshing. It was good to be home, not only for the clean air and friendly faces, but for one face in particular that had been a constant companion both in waking and in dreams. Counsellor Erestor was the closest friend he had had since Ecthelion - he was dry humoured and witty, a silver tongue as sharp as blade, but rarely used in malice, and Glorfindel found other company sadly lacking of late. He knew why, though it was rather alarming to think that he was still capable of such emotions. He thought of the way that Erestor's eyes would light up when he walked into their shared study, and the way he would swat his hands away with a rolled up piece of parchment, as if he were some troublesome child, but all the while an affectionate smirk would be tugging at his lips, betraying the good humour ever-present behind his prickly demeanour. Or perhaps the way that he sometimes fell asleep at his desk, head pillowed by the mounds of parchment, his studious, irritable expression melting away to something so serene that Glorfindel often found himself unable to stop watching, his hands itching to push the silken strands of hair from his face to press a gentle kiss to his temple.  
  
As he dismounted Asfaloth with a grateful pat and the assurance of his swift return, Glorfindel mulled over exactly how and when these affectionate desires had developed. He did not remember the first time he laid eyes on Erestor, for there were many Elves of Lord Elrond's house with pale skin and dark hair, but rather his presence was something that he had grown to notice. Every time he needed access to the archives he would hear the name 'Counsellor Erestor' before being ushered out of the library. When there were supplies that needed to be ordered from the Dwarves of Hithaeglir or the ports of Lindon the missives would be placed carefully in a pile marked for Counsellor Erestor. Then, when he found himself struggling to prioritise the routes of the Southern patrols, he would inevitably find himself outside the chamber door of the oft-mentioned Counsellor Erestor, rapping gently on the wood of the door in the hope that he would be in. Erestor was always in. Which was why he was quite so taken aback when he knocked on the door to the study three times and received no reply. He knocked again, but was greeted once more with silence. Frowning, Glorfindel made his way back down the staircase and mounted Asfaloth once more.  
  
They had known one another now for close to two millennia, at first only colleagues working under Lord Elrond in the quiet days following his return from Arthedain, but eventually a fast friendship had grown between them. Glorfindel had, at one point, been quite convinced of Erestor's animosity towards him, but the more he got to know him, the more he realised that that was simply the way Erestor was with anyone whose companionship he did not expressly desire. The messengers were frowned at, colleagues greeted with curt nods, and even sometimes Lord Elrond was met with nothing more than a shallow bow and a stern word. It was different when they were alone together. His frosty demeanour melted to a calm serenity, and he smiled more, small and soft and warm as a summer morning. He would sit at his desk and hum to himself, and Glorfindel would sit by the window, enraptured. Others may have described him as plain, but that was simply not true. To Glorfindel he was nothing short of breathtaking, particularly in the evenings, when the sun’s light had faded behind the mountains, and his face was lit only by watery starlight and gentle glow of candle flames. His face was slender and angular, his eyes and hair dark as ink, but there was a softness, a fluidity in his movements, too, one that belied the broadness of his shoulders and the severity of his brow. He was no brooding marble statue, as many of Lord Elrond’s court believed him to be. He was warm to the touch, and Eru Ilúvatar did he want to touch him! To hold him in his arms and take him to his bed.

That revelation came as quite the shock, to not only want to be in Erestor’s company, to care for and about him, but to want to bed him too. That had been the match in the powder keg. On occasion, Glorfindel would invite Erestor to spar with him, and almost every time he would refuse. However, once in a while he would accept, and before they had even begun - watching Erestor peel the robes from his body until he was in nothing but breeches, rolling his shoulders, and wrapping his large hands in linen bandages - Glorfindel’s pulse was racing. Not even in the midst of battle did his blood run that hot. Afterwards, with the two of them sweaty, panting, and exhausted, Glorfindel had to take himself away, plunge into the deep, cold waters of the Bruinen, and resist the aching temptation to _touch_ . Later in the day, as the sun bathed the Last Homely House in burning shades of amaranth and ochre, they would sit together, and the thrumming want under his skin would be replaced with a quiet contentment, every word and every glance laced with affection, the ache this time in his heart. He had to be careful, though, as Erestor was not quick to show any emotion, and the closeness they had was too precious to him to risk quite yet. Unlike in his previous life - when such companionship had to be chased and consumed greedily, as losing friends and companions was all too common, and any time together was not to be wasted - now was a time for peace, a time when friendships and relationships had no time limit, only time to mature and grow as was necessary. If Erestor could feel what was blossoming in Glorfindel’s heart in his own then he would come to him. As he had yet to do so, he was certain all it would require was more time. Glorfindel had been given exactly that - a second chance at life, and as much time as any of Ilúvatar’s First Children were given - and he would use it wisely.  
  
Ahead of him, Glorfindel could see the familiar figures of Elrond's eldest children - Elladan and Elrohir. He called their names as Asfaloth came to a halt. "Where is our good Counsellor? It is not like him to be away from his desk at such an early hour."  
  
"Welcome home, Glorfindel!" Elladan called, smiling conspiratorially at his brother. "Counsellor Erestor? Why, he has been spending time with the Rohirrim a lot of late. There is one - the young Lordling - that he's grown quite fond of, it would seem."  
  
Elrohir nodded solemnly. "Last I saw of them they were walking in Mother's garden, deep in conversation."  
  
Glorfindel was somewhat taken aback. Celebrían's garden was filled with trees that had grown from the nuts and seeds of those in her home of Lothlórien, tall and silver as she had been, they seemed to be all but made of shafts of moonlight, adorned with leaves as pure a gold as any found under the earth. It was a peaceful, and at times solemn, place, and not one that any elf of Imladris would take a Man lightly.  
  
"I see."  
  
Elrohir raised a brow. "Is there a problem, Lord Glorfindel?"  
  
"Not at all, my Lord Elrohir." He said with a tight smile. "I am sure all is well."  
  
With a nudge of his ankles, Asfaloth turned them Westward, down to the valley where the Lady Celebrían's garden grew, with naught but a cursory nod to her sons.  
  
He had heard from his correspondence with Lord Elrond of the misfortune that had befallen the travellers from the Riddermark, and of the dark things he suspected had forced them to the gates of Imladris. He felt physically sick at the thought of how close he had been to the centre of it all, and how utterly helpless he had been to do anything. He had barely been able to correspond with Lord Elrond, and even then his suspicions had to be veiled in compliments and gratitude so as to get past the spies that he knew would break the seals to monitor the information leaving the Woodland Realm. He had not even been able to send a note to Erestor, as much as he had been itching to, to let him know of the strangeness he had been experiencing in the dark of Mirkwood. He knew that Erestor would have wanted to know, to have discussed and debated the circumstances with him. He could almost picture him now, his dark brow knit with concentration, thoughts spinning wildly through his brain and filtering through his clever mouth. He had a perspective unlike any other, and he supposed that was what made him indispensable as Counsellor. He saw the wider perspective, the far-reaching consequences of every word he spoke, and was cunning and canny where others may have lost their tempers or allowed their emotions to run away with them. His advice and quick wit had saved many a trade deal and brokered peace between factions teetering on the brink of war. He was utterly remarkable, and Glorfindel loved to see his mind work. He only hoped that he would forgive him for his silence, though he was sure to understand once the full extent of the state of the Woodland Realm had been put to him.

Lady Celebrían's garden was special for more than just sentimental reasons, for as Glorfindel and Asfaloth made their way down the winding path that lead to the edge of the grove, the light began to soften around them, as though the very air around them were made of gossamer. The trees around them grew fine and tall, their pale bark and silver leaves reflecting the soft glow until it felt that the entire grove was bathed in starlight. It was as though they had stumbled into a dream. And there, in the centre of it all, were two figures, of a height with one another, one dark and one fair. His heart leapt at the sight of Erestor, bathed in the false moonlight, and as beautiful as ever, but that elation was dampened by the man stood by his side, and whose fingertips were entwined with his own.

The Rohirrim was fair, to be sure - rough around the edges perhaps, but with a pleasant face and good bearing - but so very young, even by the standards of Men; not many years past two decades, if Glorfindel were to guess. How Erestor, as intelligent and level-headed an individual as he was, could have his head turned by this boy was beyond him.

Erestor was looking around the garden beyond them, speaking quietly as the boy appeared to ignore every word, choosing instead to look at his companion with a reverence that made Glorfindel’s stomach twist. The boy said something that caused Erestor to stop and turn towards him, and the lazy smile that graced his features as he did made Glorfindel stop short. Asfaloth whinnied in protest at this sudden change, and the sound shattered the quiet moment entirely as Erestor’s head whipped round, and - for the first time in many, many months - their eyes met. 

Erestor's eyes grew wide and Glorfindel saw his lips move in the shape of his name. He rushed forward to greet him, before remembering himself, where his was and who he was with and pausing, turning to the boy, then back to Glorfindel.

“Glorfindel, it is good to see you are back.” Erestor’s words seemed sincere, but were said with a reluctance that stung, and Glorfindel could no longer meet his gaze, choosing instead to re-adjust himself on Asfaloth’s back.  
  
"I am sorry to have interrupted, Erestor.” He said, deigning to raise his eyes once more. The boy had followed Erestor, and was once more by his side, though their hands were firmly by their sides this time. He lifted his chin, in defiance of this hurt that Erestor had no concept of having caused. “I only wished to let you know I had returned. I went to our chambers but you were not there. Elladan suggested that you might be here."  
  
The implication of Glorfindel's wording had not gone unnoticed, and the Rohirrim raised a dark brow. Flustered, Erestor open and closed his mouth a few times before clearing his throat. "I finished all the work that would have kept me at my desk, and Éomer wished to see the fabled _malinorni_ of Lothlórien. It would not have been appropriate for him to come alone."  
  
"No, it would not." Glorfindel replied with surprising restraint. "I suppose I shall see you when you next have need of the study. Counsellor."

“Yes.” Replied Erestor weakly. “Yes, I suppose you shall.”

With a nod, Glorfindel twitched Asfaloth’s reigns, and urged him back along the path they had come down without sparing the two men a second glance.

 

* * *

 

Glorfindel spent a good portion of that evening pacing the floor of his bedchamber with some agitation. Was it just his mind playing tricks on him, or was what he saw as intimate as it had seemed? Had he really stooped as low as to assumed every affectionate moment Erestor shared with another was romantic in some way? Hand-holding was not an exclusively romantic gesture, not that Erestor had ever been a particularly tactile friend. Growling with frustration he sat down on his bed heavily. Erestor had seemed taken aback by his presence, and even a little guilty. What did he have to be guilty about? And why was he so infuriated by this? He did not own Erestor, neither his body nor his heart, what right did he have to feel angry?

There was a light knock at the door and Glorfindel shot to his feet, feeling the faint beat of hope against his ribs. However, when he opened the door it was not Erestor with some apology or explanation, but rather a messenger from Lord Elrond who bid him come and give his report. Glorfindel all but deflated, but made his way through the winding corridors of the Main House, his feet leaden weights, until he reached Elrond’s chambers. He rapped on the door and waited, composing himself as best he could to make his report, though the troubles in the East were suddenly very far from his mind.

Elrond opened the door, looked his up and down, and beckoned him in.

“Well then, Glorfindel, tell me of your time in the Woodland Realm.” He said simply, steepling his hands expectantly.

“King Thranduil was his usual self; caustic and aloof.” Glorfindel began. “You were correct, however, in the assumption that he was keeping me there for some reason. He may have thought his spies inconspicuous, but I could tell that the seals of your letters had been tampered with, so naturally I assumed that my own had been as well. Thranduil himself strongly advised me to keep my correspondence brief and addressed solely to you.”

“I am surprised that you managed to convey any suspicion at all then.” Elrond mused darkly. “The Counsellor was certainly disquieted by your lack of correspondence.”

This took Glorfindel by surprise. Why was Elrond bringing up Erestor at such a time? Did he suspect his feelings for their esteemed Counsellor? Surely not. He was subtle in his affections, or at least he had thought himself so. If Erestor was truly involved with the young man he had seen him with earlier, then this acknowledgement of Glorfindel’s own unrequited affection was nothing short of humiliating. He could feel the shame colouring his cheeks as he considered this new revelation, but collected himself as best he could before continuing as though the sting were not as fresh nor as embarrassing as it was.

“I did not mean to offend him, I know that his position affords him the front line with all official correspondence, it was merely the situation that forced my hand.”

“I am sure he was not offended, Glorfindel, merely confused.” Elrond reassured him. “It is unlike you two to go for so long without conversing in one way or another. Your absence was sorely felt, I think.”

 _Not nearly sorely felt enough_ , thought Glorfindel bitterly. “He appeared to be in good spirits when I saw him earlier, regardless of my absence.”

Elrond raised a brow. “You have spoken with Erestor today? Before even coming to me to debrief?”

Glorfindel felt the shame flourish on his face once more. “My apologies, my Lord Elrond, perhaps it was the aforementioned lack of conversation.”

Waving his apology off with just the hint of a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Elrond continued. “It is no matter, Erestor himself has been distracted of late, I cannot fault you.” This did nothing more than sour Glorfindel’s mood further. “Come, I have something of importance to show you.”

Tamping down the disappointment and longing that was growing in his heart, Glorfindel followed Lord Elrond to the table by the window at the far end of the room. Laid out across every square inch of the flat surface were scouting reports. Some were written by his own scouts, others he did not recognise, but they were all relatively recent.

“Take a look, Glorfindel, and tell me what you see.”

Glorfindel looked closer, reading each one with care, but finding nothing particularly suspicious, until … he paused at one near the right-hand side of the table, went back and compared it to the one before, then the one before that, then, rushing back to the left-hand side of the table, compared it to one from much earlier.

“These are second-hand reports.” He breathed. “All of them, up until … three months ago?”

Elrond nodded solemnly. There was a stark difference between the second-hand reports from earlier, and the recent first-hand reports from his own scouts. So much so that one party or the other must have been lying. Glorfindel did not wish to jump to conclusions, but given his treatment in Thranduil’s kingdom, he strongly suspected that he knew exactly which were the perpetrators. Undoubtedly it had been Erestor who had noticed the inconsistencies in the reports, though how it had taken him three months to do so he was not sure. How these second-hand reports had been passed off as fact under his very nose was also uncertain. Then again, what reason had any of them to believe that their Woodland brethren would be lying to them?

“Did you encounter anything out of the ordinary on your way back West?” Elrond asked, watching the growing horror blossoming on Glorfindel’s face carefully.

Glorfindel shook his head. “Thranduil sent unnecessary scouts through the Greenwood with us, and took no arguments against it, but the roads were relatively clear of anything foul all the way from the Old Forest Road through to Imladris itself.”

Elrond nodded slowly. “I believe you may have been deliberately tarried due to the fell creatures on the Southern borders of Thranduil’s realm. I believe he refuses to see the severity of what he is fighting, and is too proud to know when he is in over his head.”

“I doubt he means any harm by it, but he and his people are a proud and suspicious folk.”

“I agree, though I believe this requires some intervention.” Elrond replied. “I only hope that Thranduil can see it as help and not an invasion. Sometimes I wonder at his ability to see sense.”

“He has lost a lot, and has every right to be paranoid.” Glorfindel said, his frown still set heavily on his brow. “Though if you are concerned that he will take this as an offense, I recommend speaking perhaps instead with his son, Legolas. We spoke at great length during my stay, and he has great love and respect for his father, but is not so blind as to not question his actions. He privately expressed a worry that his father had become such a recluse that he had fallen entirely out of touch with anything beyond the borders of his kingdom. Thranduil has not left the Woodland Realm for nearly a full century, not for anything.”

Nodding again, Elrond moved back towards his writing desk. “I shall write to Legolas, and invite him in as moderate a tone as possible to stay here for a while. I shall strongly suggest that it would be good for diplomatic relations, and he can take from that what he will. Do you think that will make it past Thranduil’s spies?”

Glorfindel nodded. “He will undoubtedly be cautious at letting his favourite son leave his side, but after my prolonged stay, he cannot refuse without it appearing as a slight.”

“I shall write to him personally, though I believe it would be helpful to inform the Counsellor of our decision. If you wouldn’t mind bringing him up to speed.”

Glorfindel suspected that this was less of a request than a thinly veiled order, and though the dread in his heart sank it to the pits of his stomach, he bowed low and acquiesced. Bidding farewell to Lord Elrond, Glorfindel made his way with leaden feet to Erestor’s door.

The sun had sunk below the horizon, and Imladris was shrouded in darkness once more. It did little to help Glorfindel’s nerves, as the darkness only amplified the glow of candlelight coming from Erestor’s chambers, like a glowing portent of the encounter he was about to have. They never officially shared the chambers, though Glorfindel ached to do so, but it had become more of a home to him, tucked away in the northern corner of the Main House, than his own chambers ever felt. Though Glorfindel strongly suspected that had a lot more to do with the company than the room.

Pausing outside the door, Glorfindel played the conversation he intended to have over in his head. He would appear aloof, perhaps, mention that Lord Elrond had sent him, deliver his message, and leave. Erestor would be ignorant of the turmoil writhing in his chest. He only hoped that Erestor was alone, for the humiliation of finding the young Lord of Rohan in there with him would be all too much to take. The knock on this door was far more hesitant and soft than the last, and after waiting a moment, he wondered if Erestor had heard him. He was about to knock once more when the door creaked open slowly.

“Glorfindel?” Came Erestor’s voice, soft and hoarse as though from sleep. His appearance, too, was mussed, though he was still dressed. Glorfindel surmised he had fallen asleep at his desk again, and couldn’t help the warm, lazy smile that tugged at his lips.

“Erestor.” He replied, and cursed himself for the affection he heard in it. So much for aloof. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

Erestor shook his head. “It is no bother. What do you need?”

For a moment Glorfindel considered simply relaying his message and leaving, as he had planned, but his plan was already in tatters from the warmth blossoming in his chest at the sigh of Erestor, his dark hair falling from its ties in rivulets over his face. He so badly wanted to brush them away, and press kisses to his furrowed brow. _Ilúvatar_ preserve him, he was weak. “Might I come in?”

Erestor seemed taken aback at this request, but nodded dumbly and stepped aside. His rooms were exactly as Glorfindel had expected them to be; a mass of sealed and unsealed letters, bookshelves filled with scrolls and tomes that he was certain the library would desperately want back, dark stains of spilled ink across every flat surface, and the smell of candle wax and parchment in the air. “Did you fall asleep at your desk again?”

When he turned back, Erestor was flushed frowning at him quite deliberately. “I have had a lot to do, and no help whatsoever.”

He chuckled. “My apologies, Counsellor, I was detained.”

“Detained, and unable to send me a single piece of correspondence to say so.”

There was the tone that Elrond had been describing before. He was hurt, and possibly worried, too. It should have made him feel rather guilty, but Glorfindel’s heart soared. “Once again, I can only apologise. King Thranduil was rather careful with who I could send my letters to.”

Erestor looked suddenly quite ashamed and moved to sit down on the bed wearily. “I am sorry, Glorfindel. I did not think you kept quiet out of malice, I was simply concerned.”

Glorfindel sat down next to him, his fingers itching to take his hands into his own. “You were worried about me? I’m flattered.” He said, voice low, soft, and teasing.

For the first time, Erestor smiled. It was wry and familiar. “Don’t be, I was merely thinking how much of a shame it would be to have such an ancient and esteemed member of the household lost to the Greenwood.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Ancient now am I? I shall let it go without comment, given that it was followed by esteemed.”

At once the strange air of tension between them lifted, and Glorfindel was once again at home. With Erestor by his side, the thoughts of whatever strangeness he witnessed earlier gone from his mind almost entirely, he simply let himself relax. Groaning, he leant back onto his forearms and began to tell Erestor tales of the Greenwood. He described the great labyrinthine halls, crafted out of the ancient boughs of the Greenwood itself, the only trees still truly green in the dank, cloying forest. He described the majesty and ferocity of King Thranduil, the madness that clawed at his mind, and the grief still eating at his heart. He spoke of the bizarre paranoia that spread like a sickness through their Greenwood kin, eyes and ears everywhere, and not a moment where you felt truly alone.

All the while, Erestor listened, his brow furrowing, but his eyes trained on Glorfindel’s face. Erestor was a listener far more than an orator. He had spent many hours of their time together simply listening to him. When they first met it had been a truly long time since anyone had really listened to Glorfindel. People wanted to hear his stories, but cared little for his opinions. Erestor was different. He asked Glorfindel’s opinion, and listened to his replies. He cared about the small things that Glorfindel talked about, not just the battles of old, the heartache and old wounds that so many still wished to hear him speak of, but the family of blackbirds he saw by the Summer House, or the argument he overheard in the kitchens. Erestor listened like every word he said was inspired and important.

He realised that he had gone quiet, but despite this, Erestor was still watching him intently. Glorfindel took this moment to relay the message he had intended to when he first arrived. “I spoke to Lord Elrond earlier, he is going to invite Prince Legolas in the hope that the son has more sense than the father.”

“It is a solid plan,” Erestor replied, nodding slowly. “It takes away some of the uncertainty with regards to Thranduil’s whims, but are you certain that he will not simply defer to whatever decision his father makes?”

Glorfindel considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I think not. There is a fondness in their relationship, but they differ in opinion on many things. I saw him as more level-headed than his father, with a greater awareness of the world outside the Greenwood. He was a scout with the Rangers of the North for a few decades, and his time with the Dúnedain has tempered his moods and broadened his view of the world. That perspective will be important in the time to come.”

“Yes, I suppose it will.” Erestor replied, “I think the company of Men has been greatly underrated. Their counsel will possibly become the most valued of all, in the end.” His voice farther away, his mind suddenly elsewhere. His hand came subconsciously up to touch a faint bruise that Glorfindel had not noticed before, like an anemone blossom on his collarbone, and Glorfindel felt suddenly very ill. He became once again painfully aware of what he had witnessed earlier. He searched Erestor’s face and saw there what he had hoped so keenly not to find. Affection.

He could not count the number of hours he had spent searching his face for that very same emotion during their time spent together. There was a fondness in his gaze, that much he could tell, but he had never seen this unguarded, blissful, almost lustful expression grace his features before. They had been lying on the bed almost as they were at that very moment, when Glorfindel has realised the truth behind his own affections. Erestor had returned from a recent diplomatic trip to Lothlórien, and Glorfindel from a campaign in the far South, and the weariness was clear in each of their movements, but Glorfindel still found himself at Erestor’s door, and he still invited Glorfindel in. They sat down together, and spoke of the goings on in the Golden Wood and the fighting on the Harondor borders. Erestor’s pallid complexion and dark shadows under his eyes did not retract from the warmth in his smile as they exchanged tales of their experiences during the longest separation they had had in centuries. He listened in raptures to Glorfindel’s rich tales of the grace, beauty, and ferocity of the Haradrim, their mighty creatures, and vast desert sands, tall as mountains, that moved like ships in the night so that one would wake up and find the landscape around him changed beyond recognition. Then, in turn, he told Glorfindel of the gossip and intrigue coming from the court of Galadriel and Celeborn, and they argued light-heartedly about the veracity of the claims, and the likely outcome of the Southern troubles. Glorfindel found himself playing polemicist just to see what reaction it would draw, and he delighted in seeing how long it would take Erestor to notice that his pointed comment was followed not by barbs and further arguments, but with a wry smile and a teasing affection. At times Erestor would have logically argued four or five points to the contrary before he looked at Glorfindel and stopped short, rolling his eyes and waiting for Glorfindel’s chuckles to calm before joining in with his own, tired, gravelly laugh. It was then, when their laughter mingled, lying down exhausted by each other’s side, that Glorfindel felt a thud behind his ribcage and knew the truth behind it. He was in love. He was in love with this fiercely intelligent, argumentative, introverted man. A counsellor to Lords but as unassuming a man as any Glorfindel had ever met. For Glorfindel had known many Lords, and Princes, and Kings. He had spent time amongst Maiar and had been blessed by Ainur, he knew the greatest powers in all of Arda and beyond, and he had grown weary of their grandeur. Here was someone who had wit and intellect beyond them all, but who thought of himself as lesser simply because of his position in their service. Glorfindel vowed from that point onwards to never allow Erestor to feel lesser than anyone. He would build him up until he loved himself as much as Glorfindel did, and maybe love him in return. How wrong he had been.

“I, uh-” Glorfindel began, and Erestor’s attention was suddenly on him again. He wanted to ask, so desperately, whether he had missed his chance, but he was a coward, and merely sighed and shook his head minutely. “I should go. The hour is late and you were already tired when I arrived.”

When he rose, Erestor rose with him and followed him to the door. He felt a gentle touch to his wrist and paused. Erestor was looking at him, something sad and inscrutable in his expression. “You do not need to leave, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel felt something inside him break. “I think, perhaps I do.”

With that Glorfindel left. Had he looked back he would have seen a dumbfounded Erestor in the doorway, his expression crumpling as he walked away. But Glorfindel did not look back, instead allowing his pride and heartbreak to urge him forward into the night.

 

* * *

 

As he so often did in times of worry or grief, Glorfindel found himself by the waterfall that rushed under the largest of the bridges in Imladris. When the voices in his head were talking too loudly, and the thoughts of flames and darkness overwhelmed him, the sound of rushing water was the only thing to extinguish them, and nowhere was it louder and more powerful than staring out at the Bruinen as it cascaded down the side of the mountain in curtains of ice white.

However, this night it brought him no peace, for he was not alone. The young Lord of Rohan had appeared on the bridge not an hour after he had left Erestor’s chambers. He was not certain how he had found him so quickly, but he suspected that someone had pointed him in the right direction, much to Glorfindel’s chagrin.

“So, you are Lord Glorfindel, then.” Said the boy, who was, he was willing to admit, not nearly as boyish as he had thought; his beard a thick scruff on his face that sharpened his features to something a lot less soft than when he had seen him with Erestor the day before. In fact, he appeared to be an entirely different person out of his presence, his countenance and brow equally severe.

“I am.” Glorfindel replied, warily.

“You are not a impressive a figure as the tales would suggest.” Éomer continued, looking him up and down. Glorfindel bristled at this, though not out of pride for his own accomplishments - many of those he would rather forget - but more for the sheer insolence such a person must have to say such a thing.

“What would you know of Elvish tales?” He all but growled in reply.

“Enough.” Éomer said lightly.

Glorfindel frowned. “Why have you sought me out, then, if I do not inspire the awe for which I am famed?”

At this, the stoic exterior cracked. “Because Erestor is concerned, but will not approach you.”

This took Glorfindel by surprise. “Erestor is concerned?”

“Apparently you had a conversation the other night that did not end the way he had expected.” Éomer explained, and Glorfindel felt a flush of shame high on his cheeks.

“That is none of your concern.” He snapped.

“It concerns Erestor, therefore it is my concern.” Éomer offered, with a raised brow.

Glorfindel could feel the indignation and hurt bubbling under his skin. “Just because he has chosen you as a companion does not make the private matters of the House of Elrond yours to trifle with.”

“Do you have a problem with my relationship with the Counsellor?”

Glorfindel wanted to scream. _Yes! Yes! He was mine and you have taken him from me!_ But then, Erestor was never his, he never staked any claim, and Erestor certainly never consented to any sort of relationship beyond that of close friends, so he kept quiet and merely shook his head.

Éomer seemed unconvinced. “You appear distressed for some reason, though. Pray, what offense could I have caused having never met you before we happened upon one another in the garden just the other day?”

The screaming in his head was too loud now for even the waterfall to drown out, but he tamped it down, ignoring it as best he could and turning his face to stone. He couldn’t have Éomer know how twisted he felt inside, how much he longed for the man that he had so easily won, even after years of Glorfindel’s own failures. Instead, Glorfindel turned away from him and asked a single question.

“Is he happy.”

This took the Rohirrim by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

Glorfindel could feel the tears he was fighting constricting his voice but he carried on nonetheless. “Erestor, is he happy?”

Éomer considered him for a moment before nodding slowly. “I like to think so, and so he tells me also.”

“Then we have no quarrel, son of Rohan.” Glorfindel said wearily.

Éomer considered him again for a moment, his eyes searching his face for something, and when he happened upon what he was looking for he breathed a sudden revelation. “You love him.” It was not a question.

Glorfindel felt a defensive growl begin to build low in his throat. “What my heart desires is decidedly none of your business.”

“If that which your heart desires is the man sharing my bed, then it most definitely is my business.”

Glorfindel recoiled. He had taken the boy to bed? No, not his careful Erestor. It could not be so serious as that. Erestor took his time, considered every implication before doing or saying anything. If he were truly to take this boy to bed with him, it would be in the knowledge that doing so would be tying him to his mortality. Perhaps it would not mean so for every Elf - he himself had bedded a score of partners in his life who had been with him for no longer than a night or two - but he had not seen Erestor with anyone for a millennia at the very least. He had assumed, nay, hoped that it was due to some fondness or affection between them, that he was merely considering the options, the pros and cons, before happening upon a decision. He did not expect Erestor to return his feelings exactly in kind, but to fall so quickly for a mortal, after so many years of what he had thought was growing closeness between them? Was he truly in love? Did this boy truly make him happy in a way that Glorfindel could not?

“If he is sharing your bed, then my affections matter little to him, and I would prefer to keep his friendship than lose it over something so futile as unrequited affection.” He said, pointedly.

Silence fell between them, the water filling the space between them with a comforting roar.

“He does not know you are here.” Glorfindel said at last. The boy shook his head. “Good. It should remain that way. He has no need to know that you were foolish enough to come here, and certainly no need to know of anything we discussed.”

Éomer opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and frowned. He nodded in acquiescence and turned to leave, but not before looking Glorfindel in the eye and saying, “He is wonderful, a delight in every way, and anyone who cannot see that, well, they are the fool.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning Glorfindel watched from the balcony as Erestor and the young Lord of Rohan walked suspiciously closely across the courtyard, their shoulders brushing, and occasionally the very tips of their fingers as well. He saw Erestor’s face break into a brilliant smile at some comment that the Rohirrim had made and the mix of joy and sorrow that it brought to his heart was enough to make his head spin. Erestor’s smile was such a sight to behold, as rare and beautiful as any jewel, and something that Glorfindel coveted. The fact that it was brought about by this stranger, this boy of four and twenty years at most, made the pleasure of Erestor’s happiness turn sour on his tongue. He had thought they had time. He had thought it would wait. He had thought Erestor would wait. He had been wrong.

“Why, Glorfindel,” came a decidedly smug voice from behind him. “What on earth has you looking so glum? Are you longing for the Mirkwood already?”

He turned to find Elladan leaning against the baluster, a lazy smile gracing his elegant features.

Glorfindel snorted. “Hardly, I am merely tired. The politics of the world have become wearying of late.”

Elladan nodded solemnly. “Ah yes, the politics of this world. It was different, I imagine, back in the Age of the Trees. It was simpler - all fighting, no room for diplomatic relations.”

“If you had listened to anything Erestor taught you, you would know that to be untrue.” Glorfindel said dryly.

There was a glint in Elladan’s eyes that savoured somewhat of a spider having watched a moth fly directly into its web. “Ah, Counsellor Erestor. Did I not see him walking across the courtyard not a moment ago?”

“Perhaps.” He replied tersely. “Though if he had, I would not have noted it.”

Elladan seemed amused by this response. “No? Why not? I had thought you were close.”

“We are.” Glorfindel said through gritted teeth. “But he lives in Imladris as surely as I do, and therefore his walking across the courtyard would not be such an unusual thing as to warrant noting.”

Elladan shrugged. “I suppose not. Though, the Man he was walking with is certainly new. They are very fond of one another, he and Lord Éomer. Why, just the other night I saw him enter the Counsellor’s chambers, and they did not emerge again until the sun was risen. They then broke their fast together as well. They must truly find each other’s company enthralling to have spent all night and all morning speaking, for what else could they have been doing all that time?”

With that, Elladan pushed away from the baluster and walked past a crestfallen Glorfindel and down the stairs to the courtyard below without so much as a cursory glance to see the devastation he had wrought on Glorfindel’s mind.

The fear, jealousy and heartbreak twisted and writhed in his mind until he could stand still no longer. He stalked down the domed pathway that lead to the remotest garden in Imladris. It was small, barely thirty feet across, with a waterfall that trickled down a nearby rock face into a glistening pool below. It was filled with delicate white camellias, and tiny starbursts of gypsophila, and paved in a circular pattern with pale stone. He sat on one of the low benches and rested his head in his hands. He didn’t know whether to scream or cry. He had not imagined it, there was the proof in front of his eyes. He had waited too long, and had finally lost him. His steadfast Erestor. His brilliant, inquisitive, passionate Erestor. Except Erestor wasn’t his at all. He had never belonged to anyone, it was stupid of him to have assumed he ever could. He let out a plaintive cry, like a wounded animal. There was a gasp, a soft sound on the other side of the garden. He looked up to see a figure sat on a bench much like his own, in the shadow of a willow tree.

“My Lord Glorfindel.” She said, her voice soft as moonlight. “You are sad. What has hurt you so much that you fight to keep the tears at bay?”

He stood suddenly, embarrassed at being caught in his grief, and so off guard. “Lady Arwen, I did not mean to disturb you.”

She closed the book in her hand and shook her head. “You have not disturbed me, I chose to come here. I felt something amiss, though I did not know it was such heartbreak.”

Glorfindel sat back down heavily again as Arwen drifted over to join him. “You can tell, then? What ails me.”

“It was a guess.”

His short, sharp laugh was tinged with bitterness. “Then you have good intuition, my Lady. I fear I have lost my heart, and I fear even more that there is nothing I can do about it.”

She looked at him the way a parent might look at a child, with all the knowledge in the world, just waiting for the child to discover it for themselves. “You are speaking of your affection for our Lord Counsellor?”

“Am I that transparent?” Glorfindel said, with some alarm.

“No, it was a guess.” She said with a small, knowing smile.

He couldn’t help but return the smile sadly. “Then, my Lady,” He replied. “Your intuition is better than good.”

Her laughter, in stark contrast to his own, was bright and brilliant as spring water.

“I fear I have missed my chance.” Glorfindel continued, subdued once more. “He has given himself to a mortal man.”

She considered this for a moment, the warm sunlight dancing off her skin as it trickled through the canopy above. “Is it that he has given himself to another that saddens you, or is it that this other is mortal?”

Glorfindel paused. “Both, I think.” He said at last. “I want to see him happy more than anything else, but I know that with this mortal man his happiness is finite. The boy is young, and has so much of his life ahead of him, but it is a fraction of the time that Erestor has, and when the boy dies an old man, Erestor will fade.”

“That is his choice.” She said quietly. “It is his heart to give to whomever he chooses. If he deems this Lord of Rohan worthy of his heart, then so should you. His happiness, however brief, is all that matters.”

Glorfindel felt hot tears finally begin to spill unbidden down his cheeks. “I know. I know this and yet it does not make it any easier. It hurts to imagine my life without him. I love him.”

Arwen’s smile was soft and warm, and Glorfindel realised that he had said out loud for the first time what he truly felt in his heart. “If you love him, you will let him go.”

Childlike and desperate, Glorfindel rested his head on Arwen’s shoulder and wept as she whispered comforting words into his golden hair. Slowly but surely Glorfindel came to accept that the Lady Arwen was right. She spoke with the wisdom of someone who knew the pain of heartache and loss, and the burden of immortality when the one you love can live for but a fraction of your life.

“I should go to him.” He said weakly at last.

Arwen shook her head. “It will wait. You must take the time to heal your heart, or the bitterness will flow through your words and you risk your friendship with a poisonous tongue.” Glorfindel knew that to be true also. “Go to my mother’s garden, clear your mind and cry until all the anguish has flowed from you. Once you can cry no longer, then go to him and speak your truth.”

Glorfindel looked at the woman before him, and while she undoubtedly shared her mother’s fair face, he realised that perhaps she had more of her father to her than he had ever known before. Pressing a chaste kiss to her hand, he rose and bowed, bidding her farewell, and walking down the solitary path to the Lady Celebrían's garden in the valley below.

Here there was no birdsong, the insects did not buzz around his ears, the only sound was the ethereal chiming of bells, coming inexplicably from everywhere and nowhere. Here he knelt in the shimmering pools of fallen silver leaves and wept.

 

* * *

 

It felt like days before Glorfindel emerged from the argent grove, but watching the watery pre-dawn light wash the white walls of Imladris and the surrounding woodland a soft, dusty blue, he surmised that it must have only been twelve hours or so. He walked wearily back up the long track to the Main House, and paused at the bottom of the stairs that lead to Erestor’s chambers. Before, he might have walked straight to them, opening the door without knocking, and gently rearranging Erestor’s desk around his sleeping form, corking the ink, replacing the quill, and brushing an errant strand of hair from his tranquil face. Now, he simply looked on at the dark windows and sighed.

Continuing on, he crossed the domed pathway that crossed the river and stood for a time looking out over the valley below as the sun crept up above the mountains and flooded the Last Homely House in copper and gold. The morning normally brought with it the promise of a new day, new opportunities, and the chance to begin again. This morning felt different. This sunrise was a eulogy.

He continued away from the main house and down to the kitchens, where he wove his way through the busying workers, their clamour a welcome hum around his racing thoughts. He hoped that Merethdil would forgive him for his trespassing as he snuck into the back larder. However, he was not alone in this endeavour, as sat on one of the tables, picking at a bowl of fruit distractedly, was Elladan.

As Glorfindel reached the doorway he glanced up and smiled. “My Lord Glorfindel, what has you about at such an hour? You are rarely out of bed with the sun.”

“I am in need of a flask of water, and some bread.” Glorfindel replied wearily.

Elladan tossed the apple in his hand into the air and caught it deftly. “Merethdil will not be pleased to know that you have joined the Counsellor in his pantry robbing endeavours.”

Glorfindel stopped. It was embarrassing how quickly his attention was caught by mentions of Erestor. “Was he here?” he asked, his voice cracking more than he had intended.

Elladan regarded him strangely, but nodded. “Yes, he and his companion stole in here at first light. They must have been hungry for some reason.” He took a bite out of the apple in his hand and smiled at Glorfindel with wry suggestion.

“I see.” He replied weakly, and his despair must have shown quite clearly as when Elladan looked at him, the humour fell swiftly from his face.

He sighed and nodded again. “The last I saw, they were headed to the Summer House. You might try there.”

“Thank you, Elladan.

“Glorfindel.” Elladan called out as he turned back towards the door empty-handed. “I am truly sorry. I hope you find what you need, and it brings you some peace.”

It occurred to him in that moment that peace was the only thing he would find there. His happiness would forever be lost, but there would be a tranquility in his being knowing that he let the man he loved love another, and be happier in it than he would have been otherwise.

He walked for a while amongst the lavender bushes, their calming scent doing little to mollify the dread that crept up from his gut to wrap itself, constricting around his heart. He took a left, then a right, down the covered path and over the waterfall, where he hoped, vainly, that the sound would drown out the desperate thudding of his heart.

Despite the warmth of the late morning, and the dusky fragrance of the flowers blooming in swathes of sunset hues around him, Glorfindel felt cold. The further into the garden he got, the slower his movements got, until he could barely move one foot in front of the other.

Stood in the shadow of the ornate circular pavilion were two men; one dark, the other fair. They were held in each other’s arms, encircled, like the rest of the world did not exist. They were close enough that Glorfindel could not imagine that they had not just broken from a kiss. The fairer of the two, Lord Éomer, the angles of his face emphasised by his dark beard, turned suddenly to look straight at Glorfindel, as if he had known of his approach. He said something to Erestor, so softly that Glorfindel could not hear, but he knew what must have been said, as Erestor’s gaze finally found his own.

“Glorfindel.” He said quietly.

“I am sorry to have - once again - interrupted.” Glorfindel said, taking in the truth of their intimacy and losing a piece of himself in the process. “I had wished to speak with you, Counsellor, but I shall return later.”

“No, please.” He began. “I was hoping to speak with you also.”

He turned to Éomer, smiled a warm, gentle smile, and kissed him chastely. With that, the Rohirrim walked down the path, glancing back only once, and giving Glorfindel a stern look before disappearing into the trees beyond.

“Come, Glorfindel, walk with me.” Erestor said. It was not a request. “Éomer told me something just the other day that confused me somewhat.”

Glorfindel felt a sickening sensation of dread wash over him. “Oh?”

“Do you not have any idea what it was?”

Glorfindel could barely hear Erestor over the pounding of blood in his ears. “I might have an idea, but I was under the impression that our conversation was in confidence.”

Erestor nodded, considering this for a moment before asking, in as light and matter of fact a tone as though it were a comment about the weather. “So I would not be mistaken in assuming that you have romantic feelings for me?”

Glorfindel stumbled over his reply quite ineloquently. “You would not.”

“I see.”

Glorfindel found his eyes flitting desperately over Erestor’s face, looking for any hint of how this revelation was affecting him. His expression was still, and Glorfindel began to clutch desperately to the hope that even if he did not reciprocate his feelings, that he would not be repulsed by them. “Erestor, before you think ill of me, this is the reason I sought you out. I simply wished to say that despite my own affections, I hope you are happy with this Man you have chosen. I hope that he makes you happy, for that is the most important thing in the world.”

Erestor considered him strangely, as though instead of comforting him, Glorfindel’s words had cut him to the very bone. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it is true. Because your happiness has been, and always will be, of the utmost importance to me.”  
  
"But why?"

Glorfindel felt the resignation settle low in his gut, and he sighed. “Because you are my dearest friend in all the world.”

“Dearest friend?”

Glorfindel stopped, and turned to Erestor. “Yes. For I will take whatever companionship you are willing to give.”

Erestor considered him with some scrutiny once again. “So, would I also then be correct in assuming that you have been in love with me for a number of years.”

“You would.” He replied, the waver in his voice audible even to himself.

“I see.”

With that Erestor continued on down the winding path through the tall flowers, starbursts of orange that brushed his elbow as he passed.

Glorfindel tried his best to catch up, the words tumbling from his lips before he could properly register them. “Please, Erestor, I am sorry if this change in perspective affects your opinion of me, but our friendship does not have to change. I have borne this burden of emotion for centuries, and yet our friendship has not changed thus far.”

That was when Erestor began to laugh. Ordinarily Glorfindel would be delighted to have made him laugh so, but the sound of it stung. “Please, Erestor, do not laugh at me.”

“Glorfindel,” Erestor began, as his laughter calmed to an affectionate chuckle. “My dearest Glorfindel. I am not laughing at you, I would never do such a thing. I am laughing because I was correct in the assumption that you not only have romantic feelings for me, but that you have felt this way for centuries. All of this is terribly sad and terribly funny, because I have felt the same.”

“What?”

Erestor sighed, and the humour that had been dancing in his eyes only a moment before died down to something almost melancholic. “Glorfindel, the person I love most in all the world is you, it has always been you, and it will always be you. I have assumed for a great number of centuries that you would never feel that way for me, you simply treated me as a friend. I was content with that for a long time, despite the considerable pain it caused me, because I would rather live a brief existence in your company, than a thousand millennia without."

"Then this, with the Rohirrim, was what? A distraction?" Glorfindel asked, dumbfounded.  
  
“No, Glorfindel, it was accepting defeat. I was tired, so very tired. When Éomer arrived and he looked at me the way I always wished you would look at me, with his golden hair and smile like sunshine, I knew that I could bear it no longer. I have loved you for two thousand years, and I decided that it was time to simply let go. I just wanted for a moment to love someone who loved me in return."  
  
"So, you love him?"  
  
Erestor shook his head. "Not in the way he loves me, for I feel Men's hearts are capable of so much more affection than ours. He is kind, and beautiful, and good, and I am glad to have spent the last of my days in his company."

A shard of ice lanced Glorfindel's chest straight through. He couldn't mean what he thought he meant. "Last of your days, Erestor..."  
  
"I started to hear the call of the gulls and the whisper of the waves on the Western shore a thousand years before took Éomer his first breath. I was heartbroken for too long, and my longing kept pulling me West." He said, wistfully, glancing over to the horizon as he spoke, his eyes glassy and mind suddenly very far away, where the lap of the sea against the shore matched the beating of his heart.  
  
Glorfindel watched this sudden change with alarm and stopped short, calling out Erestor’s name. "I have tried to say, a thousand times, that a feeling has been growing in my heart like a field of celandine, small and bright and beautiful. For a century or more I could not place it, and yet there it grew." He ran a hand through his mass of golden hair, dishevelling it frighteningly. "I thought, perhaps, that you merely needed more time, to learn to love me the way I loved you. I had never considered that in that time you might have loved me and given up hope before I had even acknowledged it myself.”

“Glorfindel.” He breathed, his eyes no longer glassy, but fixed with some reverence on Glorfindel’s face.

“I know this sounds foolish, given that I have not been as frank in my feelings as I should have been, but let me be frank now. I have died, pierced by Balrog's claws and smote upon a mountainside, and it did not hurt half as much as the thought of losing you.”

“Glorfindel.” Erestor began once more, but Glorfindel continued regardless.

“It was not just that you loved another, that I could have lived with simply knowing that you were happy, it was that you had chosen a human, and that with his death you too would fade."  
  
"Glorfindel."  
  
Tears began to form and fall in swift streams down Glorfindel’s cheeks. "I am so sorry to have caused you pain. There is no apology I could give that would make it up to you, this I know, but please, please, I beg of you, do not go West for the sake of my mistakes. My love, I am so, so sorry."  
  
Erestor took Glorfindel’s hands in his own. "Glorfindel, _meleth nîn_ , look at me." And finally, Glorfindel did. "Do you truly love me?” Glorfindel nodded dumbly and Erestor’s smile was like a Winter sunrise. “Then why do you despair, so? Have I not just explained to you that my heartbreak was your doing? You are, as always, an illogical being.”

“What?”

Erestor’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, and his voice was low and sheepish, like Glorfindel had never heard it before. It was almost as though he was afraid, not only of asking what he was about to ask, but also that perhaps he was not worthy of the answer Glorfindel was so ready to give. “You say that you love me, and I say that I love you in return. Our heartbreak has been for naught, and would be quickly resolved, if you would still have me.”

“If I would still- Erestor, how could you ask such a thing.” Glorfindel cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, softly, melting into it. When they broke apart it was only for a moment before Erestor slid his arms around his neck and kissed him once again. A sob slipped between them as they rested their foreheads together, and for the first time tears began to spill down Erestor's cheeks.  
  
"Am I asleep, Glorfindel? For I have dreamed this dream every night for a thousand years and more."  
  
Glorfindel felt his heart break once more as he brushed the tears first from his face, then Erestor's. "No, _meleth nîn_ . Though, if this were a dream I would rather never wake than give it up."  
  
"Then let us never wake from it." He replied with a small, watery laugh. " _Eru Ilúvatar_ , we have been fools!"  
  
"To think, there are some who consider us among the brightest and wisest of our race.” Glorfindel, his smile warm and soft.  
  
"Lord Elrond will be smug, I am sure." Erestor said with a sigh.  
  
Glorfindel paused. "Lord Elrond? He knew of our predicament?"  
  
"Perhaps not of yours, but he certainly has known of mine."  
  
Glorfindel pondered this for a moment. "What of Elladan and Elrohir?"  
  
"They certainly know. Elladan has been fonder of me than perhaps a pupil should be, and has taken great interest in my happiness these past few centuries. It would not surprise me if he had some hand in your timely discovery of my location."  
  
"It would not surprise me if he had a hand in a great many things." Glorfindel muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind Erestor's ear.  
  
Erestor's laugh was louder and brighter this time, and it set Glorfindel's heart aflame.

“What of the boy, of Éomer?” Glorfindel said reluctantly.

Erestor’s smile mellowed to something soft and sad. “What you interrupted earlier? That was us saying goodbye.”

“Please do not mistake my curiosity for displeasure, as certainly I never want you to leave my arms again, but why?”

“He knew, Glorfindel, from the very beginning, that I loved another. The day you found us in the Lady Celebrían’s garden, he finally saw the truth of that fact. Then he told me of the conversation you had together, and of your confession, and though I did not believe it, it lit a fire of hope in my breast. In seeing that he knew once and for all that no matter how much he loved me, it was never going to be enough. It pains me to know that I hurt him, but he told me that he will forever hold my heart in his, and that he does not regret our time together.”

Glorfindel felt a pang of remorse. “He is a good man. Far better than I ever gave him credit for.”

“I believe he will be a better man than many will give him credit for.” Erestor replied quietly.

They stayed there for a moment that could have been a lifetime, before Erestor continued, his voice rumbling through his chest as Glorfindel held him close. “Lord Elrond told me that some words that are not wise are more important than those that are, and should be said without hesitation. I did not understand what he meant until now. I love you, Glorfindel. As foolish and as blind as we have been, I have always loved you.”

“I love you too,” Glorfindel said, pulling away to once more rest their foreheads against one another. “My Erestor.”

 

_End_


End file.
